I Do Recall
by KayFortnight
Summary: Every wizard in the world has a dream, detailing their next seven years of life. Of course, when people know the future, they try to change it, and Harry Potter isn't the only one who's been given a chance to change things... AU. Warnings: Character death, violence, eventual non-explicit het/slash/femslash relationships.
1. Fallout

Disclaimer: I am obviously not J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing her playground.

* * *

The sun rose upon a new dawn, as it had for many years and as it would continue to do so for many more, barring any unfortunate mishaps. In a tower of stone which struck a sharp dark line across said sun, Albus Dumbledore woke. He shuffled out of bed, and grabbed a hairbrush to deal with the giant knots in his hair and beard. Sometimes looking wise was really quite inconvenient.

Albus had dreamed more dreams than he could remember in his very long lifetime. Still he found this one odd. Perhaps they should hire a different Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Yes, that was a good first step. Though Albus believed in second chances, he rather doubted the Ministry and for that matter, students' parents would treat a man who hosted Voldemort on the back of his head fairly. He scrawled carefully chosen words across parchment.

Dear Quirinus Quirrell,

It is with a heavy heart that I regret to inform you you are no longer a candidate for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. I cannot explain why at this time. Please trust that I have a good reason. I bid you luck in your future search for employment and hope you hold no ill will towards this bearer of bad news.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S.: I would recommend not visiting Albania this summer. I suspect it would be detrimental to your health. There is a horrible magical plague sweeping through that country at the moment. Boils, nausea, and seizures, if you can believe it. Not a pleasant affair. There is no cure.

He sealed the letter and fastened it to the leg of his owl with the smile of a job done well, as he was not the kind of man to doubt his dreams, though he had little gift for Divination. He'd have to write Flamel, as well, and tell him to store his stone elsewhere. Now onto the subject of a new DADA teacher...

* * *

The Dursleys had been nothing but nice to him for the last few days, Harry reflected warily as he went to get the mail. Aunt Petunia even made breakfast today instead of making him do it. It was all very suspicious, especially since it'd started the morning after that dream, a change as sudden as flipping a switch. The colorful bruises all over his arms from pinching himself attested to the fact that somehow, he wasn't still dreaming.

He idly flipped though the mail, checking for anything interesting, and froze on a letter. Mr. H. Potter, the smallest bedroom... Today was... Today was that day, wasn't it? Could you have deja vu for something that hadn't actually happened yet? He walked back to the living room in a daze and handed the entire pile over to Uncle Vernon without opening it, curious to see what he'd do.  
Vernon announced aloud the type of mail as he went through it. "Bills, bills, more bills, a letter from Marge..." He paled, and Harry knew he must have found the letter. He tensed in anticipation of the inevitable explosion. Instead, Vernon muttered, "Here, boy. It's for you." He shoved it back in Harry's hands, as if even touching it for too long would contaminate him with something foul. "You don't need anyone to go with you to get your supplies?"

"N-no... You're just giving me the letter? And you already know what it says?" Not that Harry didn't know what it said, if it was the same as in the dream, which it seemed to be so far, and Lily'd gotten one so Aunt Petunia could definitely know what it'd say, but that wasn't their reaction in the dream, not that he was relying on a dream for evidence, but...

"You'd get it anyway sooner or later, and this way is easier," Vernon grumbled, interrupting his thoughts. "That bloody tail... Just... go. Go to your room." Harry clutched the letter, and ran up the stairs to the smallest bedroom, snapping out of his daze. They'd moved him to the room the morning... the morning after the dream. Or group hallucination, as was starting to seem more likely. Group hallucination that was coming true? Uncle Vernon remembered the tail. He suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle. No wonder Dudley wouldn't look him in the eye.

He pinched himself again, but it hurt. So either he had pain in his dreams now, something he didn't discount, as he knew his scar dreams within the dream had been painful or… would be painful- or... the dream was real.

He scanned the letter quickly, but all seemed to be the same. ...Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore...you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...we await your owl… (What did they do for Muggles? He assumed Hagrid didn't break down the door of every single person who lacked an owl.) Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall... Even the supplies list was the same.

What did this mean? Was everything else going to come true? Should he have paid more attention in Divination? Or, uh, should he in the future take Divination and pay more attention to it?

But the Dursleys' reaction was different. He remembered Hermione's time turner in third year. Perhaps he'd gone back in time? A lot of people died in the final battle 'last time,' and some of them were friends of his. But he hadn't done anything to change the Dursleys' behavior, so that didn't make sense. I need Hermione, he thought in frustration. She'd be able to figure this out.

Well, Harry would see more proof one way or another when he caught the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley tomorrow to get his supplies- or didn't, if either didn't really exist. Could he catch the Knight Bus without a wand? He'd figure it out.

* * *

In a misshapen house nicknamed the Burrow by its happy occupants, the Weasley family ate breakfast and simultaneously depicted a state of perfectly controlled chaos. Molly tutted as she straightened Arthur's tie, while at the other end of the table, George tried to convince Ginny to take a bright green sucker from him as she eyed it suspiciously. Ron dug into his pancakes while Fred tried with little success to spin his wand on end.

When Percy unceremoniously deposited the caged Scabbers on the table, Ron dropped his fork to his plate with a loud clatter. He resisted the urge to point his wand at the rat and and say something he'd regret. Just a dream. Pale-faced with dark circles under his eyes, Percy said, "I don't want him anymore. He makes me nervous."

Ron eyed the rat, a horrible little shiver running down his spine. Fred and George didn't tease Percy, or threaten to put a rat in his bed. Instead, George touched his ear gingerly, as Ginny reached for a wand she didn't have yet.

Oh. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Bloody hell. Why wasn't he panicking yet? "Percy, did you have a dream a few nights back which involved, well, You-Know-Who coming back, and Harry Potter becoming friends with me and saving the world, and you being an insufferable prick who ignored us, and... and Peter Pettigrew?"

Percy's gaze met Ron's own, and for the first time in this life, Ronald Weasley saw his older brother truly terrified. "I thought it wasn't real." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clock hands all land on mortal peril, as Mum and Dad reached for their wands. Percy's voice rose in pitch. "I just thought it was a foolish nightmare but every time I looked at him-"

And Scabbers changed, morphing into a short, balding man who matched Ron's memories of Pettigrew, exploding from his cage. George tackled Fred to the floor, and Ginny yanked a frozen Percy under the table with her.

Fred left his wand behind.

Ron acted on instincts born from a war that hadn't happened yet, lunging for the abandoned wand. But during the war, he'd been taller. His hand fell just an inch too short.

Bright green light flashed through the windows of the Burrow.

* * *

On a windswept, sea-lashed island of the Pacific squatted a spiny castle known as Azkaban. Azkaban had no need for cells or locks, and only had one door, an unassuming wooden slab to the outside that was usually kept barred. There was no place to hide. The inmates were terrifying, but they were no threat to anyone except each other, due to the Dementors. They were imprisoned as much mentally as physically.

Today, a rare sight, a shimmering, translucent Patronus, formed in the shape of a monkey, danced gleefully down the corridor, followed closely by two Aurors and a scruffy-haired prisoner who shuffled weakly after them, beaming like an imbecile at his good luck. Dementors closed around them, dissuading the inmates from approaching the warmth of the Patronus, the warmth of a child's August, where nothing could ever hurt.

In a small room off of the main corridor, a boy huddled against the far wall as the dementors swept past, stilling his very breathing in the hope they wouldn't notice him, though every fiber of his being wanted to gravitate towards the light of the Patronus, the wonderful, beautiful Patronus, and implore them to free him from here, plead he hadn't done anything. Please...

His father once told him proper wizards didn't beg. Ever.

The people by the Patronus, the wonderful Patronus, spoke loudly enough for him to hear, even through the dull, mindless hum in his ears ever since he'd arrived, just another aspect of the maddening air of Azkaban. "-so we've got Pettigrew now, and illegal Animagi don't get locked up this long, so-"

The scruffy one, the ex-prisoner, no one he knew, saw the boy and said, "They're keeping kids in this hellhole now? What's wrong with you people?" The boy drew back, wrapping his arms around his chest. No, don't draw its attention to me, please don't...

Dementors did not need proximity to work their magic, and they enjoyed feeding. The weight of the darkness meant he couldn't move even if there was anywhere to flee to. He fell to his knees as the memories of Mother reading to him at bedtime slipped away, no matter how desperately he clutched at them.

The memories of pain and fear, in contrast, mostly from the dream world, grew stronger. "Crucio," whispered a snake like voice in his mind, and he gasped with remembered pain. Remembered pain that hadn't happened yet, or had it? He was here because of the dream, after all, because the dream said he would be evil, so pain from the dream was real, right? It certainly felt real. He'd screamed so much in the last few days his voice was near gone.

Proper purebloods didn't scream, no matter what.

Oddly distantly, as if from far away through a long tunnel, he heard the first man tell the ex-prisoner, "Don't waste your worry on the likes of him, Mr. Black. You had the dream too, right? He takes the Dark Mark and lets Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he does, if we let him run free. That's Draco Malfoy, there. Whole family's as corrupt as can be. His parents are in here too. No offense, of course. I know Mrs. Malfoy is your cousin. Just another sign of how you're a good apple on a rotten tree, am I right?"

Draco Malfoy bit his lip nearly clean through to keep from crying. Malfoys didn't cry. Malfoys weren't allowed to cry. He ignored the sticky wetness tracking down his cheeks, dismissed it as impossible.

Proper Malfoys didn't cry.


	2. Choices

Hermione Granger understood many things, among them that you Did. Not. Mess. With. Time. Travel. And if you couldn't avoid time traveling, you didn't change events. She was rather well-read, after all, and no one could prove what would happen if you went back and interfered with the space time continuum. Why had she taken such a big risk in her third year last time? Assuming this was time travel. She assumed it was, but one could never be sure.

So she didn't get anything different from Diagon Alley, though she could remember her first year textbooks word for word. She didn't contact Harry or Ron, though she so dreadfully wished to. She didn't order the Prophet. And she ignored the pregnant cat wandering about Magical Menagerie, giving everyone scathing looks akin to the ones Crookshanks always threw around.

On September First, she boarded the train quickly. At least she didn't see herself anywhere- perhaps this was some form of replacement time travel, unlike what she'd done with the time turner. But she couldn't study it, could she, without tipping anyone off? Well, she'd have to see.

She waited in the spot where Neville had run into her asking about his toad for a half hour, slowly growing more and more confused. She hadn't done anything to change whether or not he lost Trevor, had she? Maybe she'd stepped on an insect the toad would have eaten or something. Did toads eat dead bugs? Even if they didn't in general, she rather doubted Trevor was picky.

Hermione shrugged and continued on to Harry and Ron's compartment. At least she could keep that the same. She didn't think the timeline she remembered ended too badly. Too many people died, yes, but she'd seen television and books and she remembered the lecture McGonagall gave her alongside the time turner. What if she made it so Voldemort won? No, better not to change things.

Their compartment was all the way at the end of the train, but she didn't run into Neville on the way. Perhaps he'd already found Trevor by sheer luck?

She took a moment to compose herself before stepping into the compartment, asking, "Are all the seats in here taken- wait, where's Ron?" Harry, just as she remembered him with his scotch-taped glasses and messy black bangs hiding his scar glanced up at her, away from Fred and George Weasley, who sat across from him. She noted uneasily they didn't sport their typical smiles. And, of course, Ron was missing. Had she already done something wrong?

One of them waved at her half-heartedly. "Sit down, Hermione. At least we're not going to have to say this twice. We were just explaining to Harry that everyone had that dream back in July. And when we say everyone, we mean everyone." Hermione's hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. So everyone saw her future for the next seven years? But there were Ministry secrets in it! "Or, well, everyone dreamed through their next seven years, their future. Except the folks who died. Or, you know, would die. They got to the point where they died and then woke up."

"Which is bloody unnerving, speaking from experience," said the other twin, who must be Fred. "Nothing like finding out that in one version of the future, or the prophesied future or something, you die. And then you just think it's a screwed up dream for a while, because no one wants to talk about it, and it wouldn't be the first time George and I had the same dream..."

"The things I dreamed actually happened," Hermione said, though of course she'd already suspected time travel. This didn't seem to quite be it. "Well, Neville didn't lose his toad, which I suppose makes sense if he dreamed this too, since he'd keep better track of it this time around, and Ron was here instead of you two..." she trailed off, biting her lip as the hair prickled on the back of her neck. She didn't have the best intuition, but she could add two and two to get four.

George said, "People react when they know the future, Hermione. It's why prophecies are so cryptic, because people influence them. It's why Trelawney is a flapping bat. It's why Time-Turners are limited to Ministry officials." Harry opened his mouth, and Hermione stomped on his foot, shutting him up. She wasn't sure if the secret was still important, but somehow she felt it should stay secret.

Ignorant of the unspoken communication between the two, Fred continued bitterly, "Percy didn't realize the dream was real until he told us that Scabbers unnerved him. Probably due to the dream, too. Just because you don't believe it doesn't mean you can ignore a dream about your pet rat that sleeps in your room turning into a Death Eater. And wouldn't you know it, that's when we all figured out we'd had the same dream and it was probably real, and therefore we had a creepy murdering rat wizard on the breakfast table. And I was the idiot who left my wand lying around-" He stopped, tears shimmering in his eyes.

The other twin murmured, "You couldn't have known," glaring at Hermione and Harry as if they'd dare to say otherwise.

"Couldn't of known what?" Harry asked, wide-eyed. Hermione already knew, though she didn't want to believe it. The only reason Ron wouldn't meet them on the train, if he remembered them, was that...

"Why, that Ron would take an Avada Kedavra in the face? Mom got Pettigrew in a body-bind right after that, but too late for Ron..."

Harry asked, eyes wide, "Ron's dead?" Hermione stayed silent.

"We have to go," George said softly, dragging his brother out of the compartment.

The door didn't shut in time to cut off Fred saying, "It should have been me again, dammit!"

Harry and Hermione rode the rest of the way in silence, each mourning in their own way. Hermione did not weep, or at least, she did not let Harry see her do so, though he looked so in shock she doubted he would notice.

She didn't know how to feel, honestly. She remembered the dream. Ron said and did things that made her want to smack him, but he also smiled in such a way she caught her breath to think of it. She knew how she'd loved him, a foreign sensation before. Her heart had fluttered so as she anticipated meeting him on the train today. Would he have lived up to her seventh-year based expectations of him? She didn't know, but she wished he'd had a chance to. How very Gryffindor of an end for him; did that bring him any satisfaction, in the end?

Gryffindor... She was so numb. She needed distance.

* * *

Percy Weasley twisted his fingers together tightly, staring out the windows of the train blankly. Had he even been sleeping properly? The shadows under his eyes said otherwise. He really worried her. Penelope Clearwater leaned close and grabbed his hand. "Percy? Are you alright?"

He startled, jerking back from her touch, and said harshly, "I don't deserve to be here."

Penelope said, "Oh, Percy, that can't be right," thinking back to the Daily Prophet article she'd read on the death of the youngest Weasley son. She'd known he'd be distressed when she saw him, and came prepared with an extra handkerchief. Emotional preparedness was much harder.

"I'm an idiot," he said flatly, though she saw the tears sparkling in his eyes. "Both now and in the old world. An idiot, an ambitious prick, and a coward. Rules out certain Houses, doesn't it?"

She twisted the kerchief she'd meant to offer him in her hands. "You're a Gryffindor through and through. That's why you're a prefect."

"No, I'm not." He took his prefect badge out of his pocket and tossed it to the ground. His palm bled- he'd gripped the badge so tightly it cut into his hand. "I don't deserve this. I..." He paused, took a rattling breath that reminded Penelope uncomfortably of the dementors in the old world, in the world of memory and she had to remind herself only memory, and whispered, "It was my mistake. It should have been me."

"Percy...I...you...it wasn't your fault..." I'm a bloody Ravenclaw! I should be able to make a well-reasoned protest, not this babble! "Percy, we all thought the dream was just a dream!" Penelope thanked God that they'd found a spot to themselves, since she utterly failed at being helpful.

He stared at his prefect badge, at the few drops of his blood mingling with the dust and dirt on the floor of the Hogwarts Express. "I should have known. It was my bloody rat."

She stood, fixing the tilt of her badge on her robes, and stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Percy..." She wasn't helping. And he was... "Percy, I know you're distraught over Ronald's death, but surely you should rethink this-"

"Penelope," he said, his voice choked with grief, "Perhaps you should find a better boyfriend."

She stared at him. Was he-? "Perhaps I shall," she snapped, stalking out of the section. Later, she denied to her friends she'd been crying, even when she spotted her red-rimmed eyes in a reflection in the window. Penelope had her pride. Her damned useless pride.

* * *

Harry uneasily followed McGonagall and the other first years into the Great Hall, staying close to Hermione. He pushed aside his complicated feelings about Ron's death for now, staring instead at the Sorting Hat. So. They were still going through this even though, for once, everyone knew what house they'd end up in. He spared a quick glance towards the staff table, spotting Lupin. Apparently Dumbledore had learned some lessons from dream-world Quirrell and Lockhart.

He listened carefully as the hat opened up its mouth and sang.

 _Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

 _But don't judge on what you see,_

 _I'll eat myself if you can find_

 _A smarter hat than me._

Harry relaxed a little, since the song was so far the same, and the sorting hat had predicted a good year, so obviously everything was going to be okay. Or as okay as it could be, anyway.

 _It's my duty to sort you,_

 _Into the house which makes you true,_

 _But this Sorting is unusual_

 _Because I remember each of you._

He stared at the hat, and the few quiet conversations among the hall shushed. Of course the hat would remember. This couldn't just be simple and easy. How did hats dream, anyway?

 _Some of you were of Gryffindor,_

 _The daring and the brave,_

 _But these heroes also included_

 _The foolish and the naive._

 _Others made Hufflepuff a home,_

 _A place where all were invited,_

 _But this often resulted in folk who were_

 _Ignorant and shortsighted._

 _Perhaps you dwelt in Ravenclaw,_

 _A sanctuary of the mind,_

 _Superior in your knowledge_

 _To the point of being blind._

 _Slytherin residents are few today._

 _Cunning met its match._

 _Turns out judging everyone else_

 _Comes with a little catch._

 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

 _I have just one request to make,_

 _Fix the mistakes of future years,_

 _For those who don't bend break._

The hat fell silent, ignoring the loud murmurs that broke out through the hall. A long moment passed before McGonagall stepped forward, clearing her throat, her voice only slightly shaky. "When I call your name, please put on the hat to be Sorted. Abbot, Hannah!"

Hannah rushed forward, and was sorted easily into Hufflepuff, just like before. Harry glanced about at his fellow first years, wondering if they'd all be resorted into the same houses, too. Somehow he didn't think it'd be that easy. Neville had joined him and Hermione while he wasn't paying attention, he realized, as the other boy gave him a nervous smile.

And the song was right about the Slytherins- the only students he could remember going into the house he saw were Zabini, Davis, and Greengrass. Odd, that. He wondered where they all went, then thought irritably, good riddance. There were also far less older students sitting at the Slytherin table- maybe a grand total of twenty in all the years. Most of them were future Death Eaters anyway; a house of Draco Malfoys was no loss. As long as they didn't go to find Voldemort... He ignored that thought. Eleven and twelve year olds wouldn't just go looking for Voldemort, would they? Right?

He turned his attention back to the Sorting when "Granger, Hermione," was called. Just like the last time, she sat under it for nearly four minutes before the hat decided... but this time, the hat's choice was Ravenclaw. She hurried towards her clapping table. Did she chose it, or did the hat chose for her? He'd have to ask; he dearly hoped it didn't put him in Slytherin. "Longbottom, Neville," was sorted into Hufflepuff, but everyone else before him went into their same houses. Gryffindor would be awfully light this year, if the trend kept up.

The other students were quiet this time around when Harry's name was called, since they'd already known it was coming. Harry walked up to the hat with a feeling of walking to his own funeral, and plopped the Sorting Hat on his head.

 _"Hello again, Harry."_

I don't want to go to Slytherin, he thought firmly. Especially now, that they're...

 _"Hated more than ever? That's very Slytherin of you, Harry; not wanting to be dragged down by an inferior house. But I promise to always take students' desires into account. Where do you want to be put?"_

Harry started to think Gryffindor, please- but then he paused. Would Gryffindor house really be the same without his two closest friends in it? Three, if you counted Neville...

 _"Do you see the problem? Yes, I do believe you do. And Slytherin wouldn't be full of your enemies anymore..."_ The hat's voice was nearly seductive in its attempt to convince him. _"I meant what I said last time, you know. Slytherin could make you great."_

"But not necessarily good," Harry murmured aloud. I think I've decided.

 _"Very well. Such a pity, though; this year is going to be so unevenly distributed. Still, looks like you're a GRYFFINDOR!"_ Harry took off the hat, his heartbeat finally slowing down, and calmly approached the clapping Gryffindor table, though the Weasley contingent was far more subdued this time around.

The meal was amazing, compared to the ones at the Dursleys, and just as he remembered from the dream world, except nobody asked him questions about his scar this time around. It was definitely nice to get all the awe out of the way in the dream world first. It was both disconcerting and perfectly normal not to have Ron, Hermione, and Neville around, since he felt like he both knew them and he didn't, but he supposed he'd have to get used to it. Maybe he, Neville, and Hermione could form cross-house bonds of the type he'd never really had in the old world. There'd been Luna, but she'd always said even the other Ravenclaws treated her as an outcast; people didn't make close friends outside their house.

At the end of the meal, Dumbledore asked the prefects to escort them all to their common rooms. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs left first, quickly organized by their prefects. Harry saw a fifth-year Gryffindor girl exchange glances with a red eyed Percy, who shook his head. She sighed and said, "I'm the Gryffindor fifth year prefect; first years, follow me." He quit? He winced as they passed by the Slytherin table, the occupants of which were milling about in confusion, and realized they must be missing all their prefects when Snape swept his way down from the table to lead them to their dorm.

He walked to the tower in sort of a daze, not even hearing the password to the common room (the girl wasn't nearly as good a public speaker as Percy), and made sure to tuck into bed before Seamus and Dean could ask him any questions.

* * *

Professor Severus Snape dropped a few Knuts in the money pouch of the Prophet owl, and watched as it flew off through the open windows before he turned his attention to the news.

Lucius Malfoy, his pale hair in a wild disarray Severus knew he'd never allow if he had any choice in the matter, scowled at him from the picture. The headline read, "Arrested for Future Crimes? New Insights on the Slytherin Disappearance."

Severus kept his expression neutral, but only with great effort. So. Albus refused to say why so many of his Slytherins disappeared, and now he knew. He skimmed the following article, and paused at one particular paragraph.

 _Of particular concern and controversy is the arrest of the couple's son, 11-year-old Draco Malfoy, and many other children from twelve to seventeen years of age. These children, of which Mr. Malfoy is the youngest, became Death Eaters in the dream world, just as the arrested adults did, but at the moment, they are guilty of nothing, whereas many of the adults were suspected Death Eaters during the previous war._

 _Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, said, "We only took the worst of the worst, the ones who definitely took, or shall I say, will take, the Dark Mark when they're older. You could say we're actually saving them, since this should prevent them from straying. Yes, they're in Azkaban, but we are removing the dementors from the prison as quickly as possible. Wouldn't want what happened last time to occur again, now, would we?"_

 _Many of the Slytherin students at Hogwarts who have not been arrested have fled the country and transferred to Durmstrang, a school long known for its acceptance of Dark wizards._

 _Albus Dumbledore wrote the Ministry of Magic on the behalf of Severus Snape, the Potions Professor at Hogwarts, who only took the Dark Mark to spy on the esteemed wizard's behalf. This is corroborated by Harry Potter's speech seven years in the future on Snape's heroism._

Severus threw the paper down onto the table and turned to Albus, at the center of the head table. "We need to talk."


	3. Fears

In the northern forests of Albania, a little, jewel-colored beetle landed on a bush and metamorphosed into a middle-aged woman. She leaned against a tree, pushing her pale, curly hair out of her face with a sigh. She'd incurred much ire during her years as a journalist, but no one ever took legal action against her. Of course, libel was treated as more of a matter for duels in the wizarding world than for legal action, and they never seemed to direct their anger at her so much as the Prophet in general and the people she quoted. But a Quick-Quotes Quill couldn't get Rita Skeeter out of trouble now, when several very important people in the wizarding world had 'remembered' her status as an illegal Animagus.

She found being on the run really quite uncomfortable and irritating, and perhaps the stories and fame hadn't been worth it after all. Ah well. Too late now, she supposed. Wasn't exactly like she could just wave her wand and make it all better.

 _What if you could?_ The voice whispered its question on the ephemeral wind, promising power behind her wildest dreams, with a hint of dark cruelty twined maliciously within.

Rita laughed aloud. "Are you serious?" she asked, her voice dripping with sweet venom. "Any self-respecting Slytherin knows not to trust vague promises of power from an unknown entity. We're supposed to be the ones making the vague promises, not the other way around. Thank you for the offer, dear, but I do think I'll pass."

She lit her wand and trudged deeper into the wilderness, though she'd rather be in a city any day. Less prickers and tangled vines at just the level to trip over. _It is good to see Slytherin students have not dropped in calibre._ The voice in the wind positively dripped with amusement and smugness, like a cat who'd caught the mouse and the mouse didn't know yet that it was just playing with it. Rita shied away from that analogy. _I'll be waiting when you change your mind. Beware of the storm, by the way._

"What storm?" Rita asked, glancing at the perfectly clear sky overhead. She shrugged and continued on her way through the forest. Many strange, magical things lurked in Europe's oldest forests, and it seemed she'd stumbled upon one. She almost started planning the article she'd write about it, before remembering she'd never write another article ever again if the Aurors got their way.

* * *

In a Hogwarts office guarded by a gargoyle with a strange fondness for sweets, the four Heads of Houses met with Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to discuss the effects of the dream world upon their new year. "What are your thoughts on the sorting and the first day of classes?" Albus asked, steepling his fingers on his desk. Severus glared at him. _Wait._ He purposefully let the thought past his Occlumency barriers, along with another. _Your concerns will be more effective if they wait until the end._

Minerva McGonagall was the first to jump in- she _was_ a Gryffindor. "I lost two members of my house last night- and that's not counting the previous loss of Mr. Weasley."

"Miss Granger was not in your house yet, and I don't understand what the hat was thinking putting such a clearly Ravenclaw mind in your house in the old world." Filius Flitwick said, crossing his arms over his chest, which made him look kin to a petulant child, despite the chair proportionally smaller for his frame. Albus sighed. Perhaps he'd let the houses get too divided again.

"Are you implying Gryffindors can't be intelligent, Filius?" They all knew he was. His professors were oddly shortsighted sometimes, no matter how fond he was of them. After all, Minerva and Filius could be leading each other's' houses if they'd made different choices under the hat. Still, Severus would bring them together, and for once it wouldn't be in mutual hatred of him and his Slytherins.

"Minerva, you got the Boy-Who-Lived," Pomona Sprout said, smiling, her eyes glinting, steel blades under the softest suede. "Surely you do not begrudge Filius and I Granger and Longbottom? The boy was always an excellent Herbologist." Albus did need to watch Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom to see how their new houses changed them. Even he didn't fully understand the hat's mysteries; he wondered what game it played now.

"And your Gryffindors are so reckless I can't imagine why my house would think them nitwits-"

"I lost Mr. Nott to relatives in Russia," Severus Snape said, and Filius quieted, watching him with those inquisitive Ravenclaw eyes. Ah. Pomona preferred to avoid conflict unless she truly thought it necessary, and even Minerva seemed content to listen. Good. The less of an active hand he had in affairs, the safer his world would be.

Severus continued, "Miss Bulstrode and Miss Parkinson have chosen to attend Beauxbatons, as their parents feel, and here I quote, 'the atmosphere of Hogwarts towards Slytherin students will not be conducive to our daughters' optimal learning.' Mr. Goyle is at Durmstrang, as Headmaster Karkaroff was named his guardian when his father was arrested. I have no idea what's happened to Mr. Crabbe." Albus made a mental note to look into that as Severus's gaze grew more fierce. "As we should all know from the Prophet article, Mr. Malfoy is in Azkaban for becoming a Death Eater in a dream future, along with a large percentage of second through seventh years-" his tone made it absolutely clear what he thought of that idea.

"The idea of a eleven-year-old in Azkaban..." Minerva shuddered, a hand dropping to her wand before she caught herself. "Fudge said he was removing the Dementors, at least?" Yes, he'd thought she'd be the quickest to anger. Now to just ensure she didn't do something brave but foolish.

"If he doesn't want to lose his job for sheer incompetence." Severus paused thoughtfully. "Again. No, if he could've kept the imprisoning of minors quiet, he would have. As it stands, I only have three students for this year, and Slytherin's been reduced by half overall, with all the arrests and students leaving the country or otherwise not attending." He glared at his fellow Heads. "I'd like you to keep an eye on your students. Slytherin has a... reputation, and I don't want my remaining students, who are vastly outweighed in numbers now, to suffer for it." Severus scowled, an expression designed to make Hufflepuff first years beg for mercy. Of course it had little effect on his fellow heads.

 _Oh, Severus._ He'd forgotten. Severus hated asking for help. The professor felt a Slytherin shouldn't need to. No wonder he didn't go far enough; Albus considered adding a few prompting words.

Before he could, Minerva murmured, "It's the least we can do." Pomona and Filius nodded in agreement. She leaned forward in her seat, her voice charged with anger. Ah. Minerva, the wonderful woman. She'd suggest it, wouldn't she? "Severus, I cannot speak for the others, but I will fight to save your imprisoned students." A lesser man might have cheered; Albus settled for a small smile. Yes, he would leave this school in good hands.

"What is the world coming to, if children are being sent to Azkaban, and Aurors can kill without repercussions?" Pomona said, a glint of steel in the Hufflepuff Head's eyes.

"And without a trial, for crimes that _might_ happen, based on a future that's already diverged from our own?" Filius snorted. "What these children need is therapy, not Dementors."

Everyone gave him confused looks, including Albus. "It's this really quite clever muggle invention that fixes minds," he explained, flustered. "Somewhat like occlumency, but protecting your mind from your own less desirable thoughts instead of from someone else's."

Severus kept his expression neutral, but Albus knew his people. He could sense the strain inside as the Slytherin Head said, "This... We don't need-"

"It's not pity, Severus," Albus said. He thought perhaps by the glances from his heads of houses they'd forgotten he was there. As it should be. But since Filius didn't say it, he said, "You need to go about this cautiously."

Pomona glared at him. "Cautiously? Is there not a point where the sacrifices become too much? You _died_ in the old world, Albus. You can't remember the final year, the year of children hunted by the Death Eaters, of students forced to torture one another, of every student dividing into the DA or the Death Eaters because they had no choice, of the piles of dead in the battle. Are we going to start the sacrifices _early_ this time around?" She wept. Though she did so lightly, Albus had to admit the head of house was overdoing it a tiny bit. Still, he played along; he'd risen to his position by knowing how to influence people when necessary, and his heads of houses required that skill as well.

"Pomona, stop crying..." Albus said, offering her a handkerchief. She sniffled, accepting it. "I by no means claimed that, m'dear. I simply wanted to say we should proceed with caution, so we can build an impeccable case. We all know how the Wizengamot is." They nodded, Filius particularly vigorously; he had an uncle in the court. "Storming to its doors will get nothing done, not this time. We should research as much as we can into the legalities of the matter."

Pomona said, suspiciously calm, "I suppose Irma would be willing to help." She glanced quickly at Minerva, who nodded tersely.

"Should have been in Slytherin," Severus muttered, so quietly Albus knew only a Legilimens could hear. He barely kept from chuckling. Severus thought everyone he respected should have been in Slytherin. Each head of house and Albus himself had earned the compliment at one time or another.

But back to business, now that four of the best minds in the wizarding world would hunt down information to save his students. Albus turned to the rest of the heads and asked, "So, how will you challenge these students who already learned all the material in their dreams?"

Severus cleared his throat, recomposing himself. "From what I saw in class today, most of the students are still as incompetent as ever in practical skills, although a few aren't completely ignorant of theory..."

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I'm sorry I didn't write you the moment I left Azkaban. After all, you proved my innocence in the future, which proves it this time around too, and I don't even need to be on the run, which, let me tell you, is the strangest experience. If you include the dream world, I've either been on the run or in Azkaban for twenty-four years, and it feels longer. But you couldn't have stayed with me for the week I was free before Hogwarts started, anyway- believe me, I wasn't (still aren't) great company._

 _I've talked with some of the Healers at St. Mungo's, though, and I think I'll be better off by the holidays, and I've started working on cleaning up Grimmauld Place again, though that's the work of several lifetimes. You can come stay with me any time you'd like, though I daresay you'll have plenty of other offers._

 _The Ministry is very apologetic, probably so I don't go to the Prophet with this business. (Do you know why there haven't been any Skeeter articles lately? That woman is vicious, but entertaining. She'd only just started out by the time I was imprisoned; I'm sure her writing has matured in wit.) They purchased me a new wand and robes and paid quite a pretty sum in reparations._

 _Pretty neat, though it'd be better if all those 'Imperiused' Death Eaters were there kissing up to me, too. Glad they finally found a loophole they could catch them on, though I do wish the Ministry had been fair enough to give them a trial, since it hadn't for me. I don't like to say Peter deserves a trial, but I do think he and the other Death Eaters need one. I heard about your Ron's death, Harry, and I'm so sorry. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always here-_

Sirius tore the letter into pieces, balling them up into a big wad of paper and chucking it at the wall in frustration. It shouldn't be this hard to write a letter to his own damn godson!

But how could he explain to an eleven-year-old that he went somewhat insane when he was in Azkaban, and didn't take him in right away because he wasn't sure he could handle having someone else around after being isolated for so long? How could he tell him the imprisonment of the Death Eaters (without a goddamn trial!) based on their _future_ crimes was wrong and vile, and Azkaban was no place for children, even if they were Harry's future enemies? How could he help Harry deal with the death of a friend he never met?

 _Dear Harry, I'm pretty messed up-_

He ripped that one up, too, and glanced at another letter at the end of the table, one he'd received a few days ago when he wrote Remus asking for advice and catching up on old times.

 _Just tell him the truth._

* * *

Harry waited by the door to McGonagall's office, tapping his wand against his leg impatiently, until Percy Weasley stormed out, red-faced and muttering swears under his breath. He shut up abruptly when he saw Harry, even more flushed than before, and managed to say calmly, "She's free now."

Harry entered the office just in time to catch Professor McGonagall saying, "Well, that went well. Mr. Potter, what can I do for you?" She sipped at the tea carefully nestled among the papers overflowing her desk.

"Can I get on the Quidditch team early again this time around?" he blurted out. He needed Quidditch. "I figured I'd just wait until I saved Neville's Remembrall again, but then I remembered he's in Hufflepuff, so I won't have class with him, and Malfoy's not around to steal the Remembrall, anyway, so-"

"No." Harry gaped at her, speechless. What? Wait! What! How-

McGonagall answered the question he finally settled on before he had a chance to ask it, the why. "I favored you the first time around, Mr. Potter. I am known by my students as being fair, but I rarely have been regarding you. You can try out for Quidditch next year, with the rest of the students."

"But we'll lose the cup!" Harry protested. "You haven't won the cup since the war!" Not that he wanted Quidditch for the House Cup, but maybe that would convince her. Just, everything kept changing...

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," McGonagall said calmly. "After all, the Slytherins have lost some of their best flyers, as well. Perhaps Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff will finally get a chance to shine." He'd never seen Quidditch games involving Gryffindor as a spectator, and briefly he considered what that might be like, before running into the obstacle.

It'd be different. But he couldn't explain adequately to McGonagall his desire for something, anything in his life to be stable, so his outburst took a different form. "You can't do this! Isn't it your job as Head to make sure we have the best chance of winning possible?" Almost immediately, he regretted his mistake- he knew his older self would have regarded the outburst as a fit of childish pique. Well, bully to him.

Her expression darkened. "Twenty points from Gryffindor and detention. It is my job to train my Gryffindors to be the best people they can be, Mr. Potter, including good sportsmanship. I like it when our house wins the cup, but we should keep the rule-breaking for when lives are in danger. You have one year off the team. Don't make it more with your behavior."

"But-" Harry shut up when she gave him a stern look, deciding perhaps a year wasn't so bad. Without Hermione's notes, he probably needed to concentrate on his studies in this world. The thought made him queasy. Dudley got annoyed when he did better than him, and so he'd never developed study skills. "I'm sorry," he said. "The... changes between the worlds make me nervous."

"I know Mr. Weasley was your friend in the old world." Something flashed in her eyes, an odd bit of pain, and Harry wondered if it was because Ron was one of her Gryffindors in the old world. "How are you coping with his loss?"

Harry hesitated, then decided if he could tell anyone this, he could tell Professor McGonagall. "I'm alright. It didn't hurt the way I thought it should have. I never knew him in the real world, after all. It's not that I'm not sad he died," he hastened to explain as the Professor raised an eyebrow. "I just... I'm sad because he died, and because of the potential friendship we'd have, but not because I lost a friend, because we weren't actually friends yet. I remember being happy being friends with him, but I don't..." He struggled to explain. How could he? Numb and lost probably fit better than grief.

She only nodded, though he could still see worry wrinkles about her eyes. "Feel free to talk with any of us should the feelings ever strengthen. I trust Sirius has written you?"

Harry hesitated, remembering the brief letter that morning. "This time around you know he's innocent, right?"

Allowing a brief smile to cross her face, she nodded. "I assume he's invited you to spend the holidays with him?"

"Yes," Harry answered, not entirely sure where this was going. Was she going to try to forbid him to stay with Sirius, even though she knew he was innocent?

"I'd like you to stay at Hogwarts for the first day of Christmas holidays. We want to kill the basilisk, and no, Mr. Potter, you are not entering the Chamber of Secrets with us," she added sharply before he could get a word in edgewise. "We're ensuring all the students leave this year so they aren't at risk. We'll send the ones staying at Hogwarts to Hogsmeade for the day. The Aurors and us teachers will handle the monster and ensure it can never be used as the weapon it once was ever again."  
This time they might actually protect the students, then. "Then what do you need my help for?" Harry questioned. "Not that I don't want to help, of course, but..." Harry wouldn't have any of the adventures then that drew he and his friends together. His older self chastised him sharply. Not adventures. How had he ever survived Hogwarts?

She leaned forward, resting her hands on her desk, fixing him with a steely gaze. "We need you to open the Chamber of Secrets, Mr. Potter. The only other living parselmouth, after all, is currently being hunted down by Aurors in Albania- don't look at me like that, along with the horcruxes, we did pay attention to the dream- and of course would be unlikely to help us."

Harry didn't let the fact that Professor McGonagall had just made a joke distract him. "They're hunting down the horcruxes?" How would the prophecy work, then? And could he survive the death of the horcrux inside him again?

"Yes. That's another reason why we need to kill the basilisk as soon as possible. They've gathered the diary, diadem, locket, and ring, but Fiendfyre is too dangerous to safely control, even for Aurors, and the sword isn't infused with basilisk venom yet, so we need the venom." She wouldn't beg, he knew, nor manipulate him into doing it like Dumbledore might. He could refuse. She laid out the facts. If he did say no, they'd probably break down the entrance to do it. But Harry knew nothing of life beyond servitude to the Dursleys and heroism. McGonagall offered him the only option in the new, safer Hogwarts to continue the latter.

Harry's head was spinning, and he suspected he'd have a lot to talk to Hermione about at dinner tonight, but he said, "I'll do it."


	4. Hopes

Disclaimer (Since I keep forgetting to put it): Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling's treasure, not mine.

* * *

Hermione tapped her fingers on the library table, keeping her voice down. "So, what you're saying is after Christmas, everything will be taken care of for us?" Harry nodded, and started to say, _Isn't that so boring?_ , but Hermione jumped in before he could, eyes shining. "That's amazing! We can have normal schooling! Maybe the curse on the Defense position is gone, too, or will be once the Aurors catch Voldemort?"

"Maybe. Imagine what it would be like if Lupin taught us all 7 years!" Harry said excitedly, forgetting his dismay over the loss of... well, it really wasn't an adventure, considering how horrible parts of it had been, but... he really didn't know how to get through a school year without an adventure. No adventure, and no Quidditch. That thought dampened his mood. How did the other students do it?

He thought his older self would probably be thankful for the experience, but his current self wasn't really sure how to function.

"Do you remember how Lockhart tried to start a dueling club second year, before you and Malfoy ruined it?" Hermione mused.

"Yeah, I- Hey!" he protested. "That was completely Malfoy's fault, not mine! I didn't know being a parseltongue would be so shocking to everyone." And really, Malfoy summoning a snake was completely ridiculous.

"Yes, I know," she said patiently. "But your rivalry did come into play a little. Still, imagine what dueling club would be like if Lupin ran it? And we wouldn't need the DA anymore, either, although it might be good to get SPEW started up earlier this time around- Ooh, has Dobby been freed yet?" Her voice grew louder as she spoke.

"Maybe Dumbledore knows where house elves of arrested families go," Harry said, tactfully not mentioning the dread that rose up in him at the thought of SPEW and that he had liked running the DA. Maybe he should just try to get a teaching position someday, like a normal person. But if the curse on the defense job was gone, or would be, then Lupin would probably stay in it, wouldn't he?

He wondered why anyone ever dreamt of being a teacher in the wizarding world when there were maybe twenty total positions per each of the few wizarding schools, that were only freed up by retirement or death. Not even death, in Binn's case. Would his grandchildren be taught by the ghost?

Madame Pince came over to hush them for making too much noise, so he slipped Hermione a note that read, simply, _Perhaps we should talk to Lupin about that dueling club soon_. He did finally have a chance at normality. Maybe he should try and take it.

* * *

Fred carefully placed the last spell above the teachers' table in the Great Hall before turning to his brother and murmuring, "You sure about this?"

George nodded. "It wasn't the way I mourned you, in the old world, but then, you've always been a prankster. Ron wasn't." The shimmer in his eyes belied his calm tone. "He'd be the victim of pranks, and not just ours. It's the best way to remember him."

"I wish I could remember being dead," he said, clenching his hands into fists as he remembered how the dream had simply ended. George and the others told him after they all realized the dream was real he'd died in it; otherwise he never would have known. "Maybe then we'd at least know what Ron is dealing with now." He hadn't become a ghost, that was certain, and ghosts never knew why they stayed or what lay beyond. And the Weasleys weren't a religious family. Penelope, a devout Catholic, had argued with Percy over that more than once before they broke up.

"I can't believe he's gone," George muttered. He tapped his wand against his palm and closed his eyes. "Ready to finish the spell?"

Fred nodded, and they walked to the central rune together. "Diffindo," he whispered, in unison with his brother, and they clasped their left hands together, watching the blood well up between their fingers and drip slowly into the center of the rune.

Many of their fellow students underestimated the twins. Pranksters and jokesters were laughed at, and admired for a particularly clever trick, but they were not thought to be especially intelligent. The twins helped that impression along by never performing better than mediocre in their classes. Only Percy seemed to notice how easily they got the mediocre grades some of their classmates struggled for, or at least Fred thought he did, considering his regular comments up until the dream that if the two only applied themselves, they could go far. After all, not just anyone was skilled at creating new spells and potions, and through a proper experimental process, not the way some wizards seemed to stumble upon things utterly by accident.

The Hat suggested Ravenclaw. They told it no.

They used that skill now to weave a new spell, a gift to their lost brother. "In the name of Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, in the name of Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff, in the name of Hogwarts itself, we swear to never again play a prank within these hallowed walls." Magic, the color of spun golden thread, bound their wrists together as a slow wind rustled their bright red hair.

George swallowed, glancing nervously at his brother. He said, "Godric Gryffindor, though our brother never had a chance to be sorted, he was a true member of your house. He died saving lives. He died stopping a murderer. He died bravely." A red tendril grew up from the center of the rune and lashed itself to the gold around their wrists.

Fred blinked away the tears welling up in his eyes. "Please, give him the recognition he deserves."

They felt the magic leaving them with a wild rush of energy, channelled and amplified through the spells placed around the room, and watched the bonds dissipate away and their rune sink into the floor, disappearing. "We did it," George murmured, waving his wand to heal his and his twin's cuts. "Whatever 'it' is."

* * *

Neville Longbottom was determined to do better in Potions this time around. Surprisingly enough, being a Hufflepuff made it _so_ much easier. His dream-self had started to suspect in his later years of Hogwarts that Professor Snape's constant attention and distrust focused on him wasn't helping his self-confidence and Potions skills any. It seemed to be right, since he'd managed to get through three classes with no melted cauldrons, and even managed an "Acceptable" on his Draught of Improved Sight. After all, many potions connected to Herbology; he just made use of the connections this time to understand.

It was the decreased attention even more than the extra experience and the connections to Herbology, he was sure of it. Hufflepuffs weren't any more prone to Potions errors than students in any other house, despite what some of the Gryffindors might say. However, their work ethic led them to gamely try to finish and fix a botched potion, instead of giving up _before_ it exploded, so Professor Snape was always busy averting potential disasters.

He smile-winced at the memory of Professor Snape glancing in Justin and Hannah's cauldron, and, as his skin warred with the decision to go puce or deathly white, snapping the words that seemed to mark every Potions class nowadays, "Everyone out!" Neville still had no idea exactly how Justin and Hannah had turned a boil-cure potion into a vapor that actually pitted holes in the walls of the Potions classroom, and he had a feeling they didn't know, either.

Then there were the Ravenclaws. Neville had once made the mistake in the old world of assuming all Ravenclaws were like Hermione Granger, despite her initial placement in Gryffindor. Then he'd met Luna Lovegood, but he'd simply assumed she was the exception to the rule. And she was, but not in the way he thought.

Ravenclaws weren't in Ravenclaw because they were smart, though of course they tended to be. Ravenclaws were curious. Sometimes this resulted in calm, thoughtful personalities like Padma Patil, Hermione's preferred Potion's partner, who would ask seemingly endless questions on the theory and reasoning behind certain choices in the brewing process, which occupied Professor Snape enough as it was, and taught Neville a whole lot by listening.

Then there were Ravenclaws like Morag MacDougall, who was so shy she rarely spoke, and never asked questions. Of course, she had to fulfill that Ravenclaw curiosity somehow, and she'd turned to the experimental process. And she wasn't the only one. It was a good class when only a couple of the Ravenclaws ended up in the Hospital Wing for deciding to see what happened if they gave the potion a counterclockwise turn instead of a clockwise one.

So Neville thrived in relative anonymity, although in a Potions class far more dangerous physically than his Gryffindor/Slytherin one. He added a pinch of minced grass to his potion, and watched in satisfaction as it turned a deep midnight blue, hurriedly putting some in a vial, a relic of class with Slytherins who would sabotage the potion the moment his back was turned.

Only a moment later, sickly sweet smelling smoke billowed from the Ravenclaw side of the room, and Professor Snape yelled, "Everyone out, _now_!" half guiding and half carrying Morag MacDougall and her partner, Sue Li, towards the door. Neville hurried quickly out, barely concealing a grin when Snape snapped, "What was that? You did _not_ try that last time around!"

"What would be the point of that?" Sue asked, genuine confusion in her eyes, as Morag tugged her sleeve, wide-eyed, practically silently begging her to stop talking.

Snape turned his attention to her. "Miss MacDougall, do you have something to add to this discussion?" She shook her head frantically, taking a step back and then swaying woozily. Snape sighed, running a hand through his hair; Neville thought perhaps the grease was from potions on his skin combined with the nervous tic. "To the hospital wing with both of you, twenty points from Ravenclaw, and you get to explain to Madame Pomfrey what the two of you are doing there for the third time this week, because I'm not sitting through another 'You're supposed to keep the students safe, Severus' lecture." They shuffled off, supporting one another carefully.

Neville felt a hand brush his sleeve and glanced over to see Hermione. He allowed her to draw him off to the side before asking quietly, "What do you want?"

"Harry and I are going to see Hagrid after classes are over Friday. Do you want to come along?" she asked, the look in her eyes a silent entreaty. "It's been... strange this year."

Neville narrowed his eyes. Oh yes, he could read into that statement, and perhaps his past-future seventh year had made him cynical. "I'm not Ron, you know, and not just because I don't have red hair and a large family. If you just want a replacement..." He hadn't been included in their group for the first few years, and while it was completely possible for them to start the friendship early this time around...

"No! Of course not!" Hermione shut her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. "I just... we should have made friends with you sooner in the old world, and I don't want House ties to prevent us from being close." She smiled a little. "There's no reason for any of us to be lonely."

Neville hesitated, but... well, there was no reason to say no.

* * *

Rita stumbled into the small cave, more of a muddy hollow in the wall of the cliff than a real cave, entirely by accident, but after a quick Lumos revealed there was nothing hiding in the corners to strike, decided to make use of it. The pouring rain outside, lit by occasional flashes of lightning and rumbling with thunder, might have had something to do with that.

"Beware of the storm," she grumbled. She dragged in a bit of drenched wood from the ground bordering the cave, lighting a bit of a fire- she loved magic- in the hope of drying out her soaked clothing. "Very funny, mysterious voice." A distant chuckle told her she wasn't rid of the bloody thing yet. "At least the Aurors won't come after me in this mess."

 _...I don't know about that. They might not be looking for you specifically, but believe me, they'll come._

She glared out into the forest, but decided yelling and screaming at the thing wouldn't help. Instead, she adopted her sugary-sweet reporter voice, and asked, "Why, then, who exactly would they be looking for? You? What makes you so special?" Inwardly, she prayed that whatever this creature was wouldn't destroy her for disrespect, even as her outer smile never faltered.

It laughed again. _What makes anyone special, my dear girl? You should know better than anyone the most important part of power is that others know and fear your name._

"I don't- I'm a journalist! I'm supposed to lurk behind the scenes, not be recognized myself!" she protested, scowling at the sputtering fire and debating the pros and cons of letting it die out or venturing out into the storm for more wood. People didn't fear her name. They feared having their secrets spilled.

 _Ah, but people do fear your name, Ms. Skeeter, if only because they know you will unfavorably call them into the light. You've found a way to fame and power, just like any proper Slytherin, and made it entirely your own. I should have recruited you long ago, though it seems you were still in school at the height of my power. You're even more delightfully vicious than Bellatrix, though somewhat slow to not have-_

"-Figured it out yet," Rita completed calmly, though her heart hammered in her chest painfully. So. Was she to be the vessel of his return? Could he even take possession of her were she to be unwilling? "You're not on everyone's minds all the time, You-Know-Who. Especially ten years after you got killed by an infant." She watched the fire sputter out and glanced miserably at her almost-empty pack. At least Azkaban would be dry and have food.

As if commanded by that thought, a pile of logs stacked themselves against the back wall, the fire re-alit, and a salad appeared on a clean wooden disc, too crude to count as a plate in any other but the current situation. _At the moment, I can only give you that which is within the bounds of the forest, and I didn't think you wanted raw rabbit-_

"Get out of my head!" Rita screamed, and he at least shut up. She sank to the floor, shivering, not entirely from wet or hunger.

She was Rita Skeeter, world class reporter and manipulator. She'd even managed to make Dumbledore look bad, something no other reporter had ever achieved. Celebrities trembled at the mention of her name- the only person she'd never disparaged was Gilderoy Lockhart, but then, she couldn't remember ever investigating him, so she figured if she hadn't been so rudely sent on the run she would've eventually gotten around to it. Minister Fudge once told her he considered her his primary propaganda tool, only to pale as she thanked him sweetly and he realized exactly what kind of a story he'd given her. She hadn't published it, of course- she had some sense of self preservation, and anyway, he knew her secret and would actually use it against her, unlike that fool, Dumbledore.

Not the animagus secret. That was mild in comparison. Her mother was a muggle, and her Slytherins compatriots didn't take kindly to a half blood in their midst. Neither would He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The sun set and the rain stopped before she dared to nervously pick up a leaf of the salad. She sniffed it, and examined it carefully in the light of the fire, but there seemed to be nothing wrong with it. Her growling stomach urged her to take a bite, and soon she'd devoured the entire plateful.

She'd nearly fallen asleep, lured into a relaxed state by the warmth of the fire and the fullness of her stomach, when the voice spoke again. _Ms. Skeeter, I offer you the story of a lifetime._

Rita hesitated.


	5. Losses

Not my playground, et al.

Question for anybody reading this, if you're okay with saying? I feel like I have the adults in character, but as for the kids, did I make them feel too adult to you? No? Just me? Great, thanks.

* * *

A large group of Gryffindors clustered around the fireplace that morning, chattering in loud, excited voices. Probably some parent had Floo-called their child, and the resulting confrontation was in some way amusing. Half of Gryffindor watched every time Neville Longbottom spoke with his grandmother, in the old world. Maybe the Hufflepuffs were kinder to him.

Percy shuffled towards the door, intending to go to the Great Hall and get his breakfast. He wasn't a prefect anymore, after all, as Oliver kept reminding him, and he wouldn't police his housemates.

"Hey, Weasley!" someone yelled, and he stopped, though he didn't turn around. Odds were the shout was directed at one or both of the twins, after all. They were probably experimenting on the first years again. At least it meant they were doing something. "Isn't that your brother up there?"

Percy froze, and turned slowly towards the shout, stalking through the crowd, which parted far too easily before him. If Fred and George were putting themselves in danger after what had happened to Ron...

The new painting over the fireplace depicted a young, red-haired boy, who grinned foolishly as he waved his wand and sparks came out. His Hogwarts robes were somewhat frayed, but the few holes were lovingly stitched shut by a careful hand. He had a smudge of dirt on his nose, and freckles on his cheeks. Underneath the painting, a small plaque proclaimed the subject to be _Ronald Weasley, A True Gryffindor._

Percy finally found his voice in a startled, high-pitched squeak. "Ron?"

The boy in the painting smiled cheekily back at him. "Hullo, Percy! Did they catch Pettigrew?"

He stumbled backwards and landed in a chair he rather suspected hadn't been there before. "R-Ron?" he asked again, incredulously. He'd never seen a portrait of someone he'd actually known, well, pictures of Dumbledore of course, but nobody he actually knew, like the brother he'd chided when he left dirty socks all over the floor and praised when he volunteered to help Mum with dinner in that enthusiastic way boys had, even when he forgot about the pot and let it all boil over, because he was trying-

"Percy? Don't be a prat. Answer the question, please? Did the Aurors get Pettigrew and lock him up in Azkaban?" Picture-Ron bounced on his heels with eagerness.

"Yes," Percy choked out, furiously blinking away the shimmer in his eyes. "Yes, they did. Mum got him in a Body-Bind after you..." He stopped, taking in a shaky breath. No. He couldn't mourn. Bill and Charlie were so far away most of the time. He had to be the one to comfort the rest, Mum and Dad and Ginny and the twins, because don't think he hadn't noticed their lack of pranks since Ron- he didn't think they were just not pranking him, anyway. "The Aurors got him, Ron. It's alright."

"That's good. I want to go meet the other portraits. See you later!" he exclaimed, before Percy even had a chance to reply, and he disappeared from the frame.

Percy sighed shakily, glancing about and noticing the Gryffindor common room was empty. Suspiciously so, considering how much his yearmates loved a good bit of drama. Still, he'd take it. He wasn't a prefect anymore. No need to police his house.

* * *

Mad-Eyed Moody crouched in a small cave, running warm ashes through his fingers. "Someone was here, and not that long ago," he commented. He squinted at the flat wooden disc in the corner. A wizard used to civilization, at that.

"But You-Know-Who can't light a fire without help right now, can he?" Kingsley Shacklebolt pointed out. "Perhaps one of his supporters is in the area?

"Perhaps," Moody agreed, irritably batting a small blue beetle away from the ashes. "Bad news if one is, since we still aren't sure if we've blocked off all his ways to come back to a body. They'd better be keeping a close eye on Potter at that school of his." It was well-known that Moody found Hogwarts a little weak, as a graduate of Durmstrang- course the Hogwarts alum aurors coughed and looked away at that comment.

He turned to the Aurors. "Alright, everyone, remember, constant vigilance! Stun first and ask questions later! Whoever lit this can't be far. Move out!"

He and Shacklebolt took the north, catching and tearing their robes in the thick foliages as they hurried through the brush. They stunned a rabbit or two before they realised what they were. Moody thought for a moment before snapping their necks. No one had ever claimed You-Know-Who was a rabbit animagus, but better safe than sorry-

Animagus. He swore loudly as he remembered the shiny blue beetle he'd swatted aside without a thought at the campsite, spun about in place, and raced towards it, ignoring Kingsley's surprised shout. Damn Skeeter was here!

And by the time he got there, the tell-tale beetle was gone.

"Skeeter's not that important," Kingsley said dismissively when he explained the situation.

Moody fixed him with an unrelenting glare. "She's a complication," he growled. "And I don't like complications."

* * *

"Your garden is amazing! How do you get your pumpkins so big in the rocky soil? And why are there crocuses growing so late in the year? Do you start them in the greenhouse or something?"

Hagrid shook his head. "Oh, that? That's nothin'. You should see the vines. Awfully braggish of me, but I think they're the best in England. Come see!" He lumbered out the door, Neville hurrying after him with an enthusiastic grin.

Harry stared after them, furrowing his brow. "Don't tell me Fridays with Hagrid were just changed to extra Herbology classes." He didn't hate Herbology, but he didn't particularly like it, either.

Hermione sipped at her tea thoughtfully. "In all fairness, none of us ever thought to ask, and he obviously adores his garden."

"Yes, but..." He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to put into words the feeling that'd been nagging him the last few weeks. "Hermione, what was the point of the dream if everything's going to change so much we can't use the knowledge?" What was the point of the dream, even then? Pettigrew and Uncle Vernon both remembered the other world, so obviously it wasn't only the good people who remembered.

She rested her head on her hands, leaning forward. "That's just it, Harry. We are using the knowledge. Using the knowledge from the dream is what got the Death Eaters arrested and Sirius free."

"But it also got Ron killed," Harry pointed out, and she winced, looking away. He flushed guiltily- he knew she was still having trouble dealing with that- but gamely soldiered on. "And it's changing a lot of little things, like-"  
"-Like taking Neville here and having him co-opt Friday tea?" she asked shrewdly, and he could only blush in shame in response. "Harry, I know. It's weird having all these memories of a life that honestly, when you really think about it, wasn't that bad. You want the good memories to stay the same, like Friday tea and our friendship with Ron. I have the same problem." She laid her hand on top of his. "Harry, look at me."

He looked. Her eyes were shining in earnest belief of what she was saying, the Hermione he knew who would give her all to a cause. "Think of it all this way," she said. "If you really, truly think about this life without thinking of the one we lived before it, is it actually a bad one? For us, anyway?"

Harry thought about it. He'd escaped from the Dursley's, and the Slytherins weren't bullying him, and his godfather would host him for the holidays. He was making good grades in all his classes. Sure, Voldemort was alive and there was a basilisk in the school, but the Aurors were hunting the former and the latter would die over Christmas break. And a boy had died, a wonderful, loyal, friendly boy, who if the portrait was anything to judge by was brave- but he was a boy he didn't know, and it wasn't his fault he was gone. He mourned Ron, yes, but because of the potential, not the actuality. He chatted with the portrait sometimes, for old times sake, but it was different. "I... I guess it's not."

"Good," she replied with a small smile. "Now, I visited Dumbledore today and asked him what happened to the captured house elves from the Death Eater houses. They're considered property of the Ministry now, if you can believe it! I've been writing letters to them and the Prophet trying to get them to free them, but they aren't even publishing the letters. If they can use future crimes to arrest the Death Eaters, then they should at least be able to use Dobby's future love of freedom to free him, even if it doesn't work immediately."

Hermione paused expectantly, and Harry admitted, "That does make sense. Better than leaving hats lying about for the ones at school to pick up." SPEW had been tragic.

She winced. "What was I thinking? Or will be, or... let's just agree the dream is past tense, right?" Harry nodded, not bothering to mention everyone else had agreed upon that long ago by default. "Good. Now, I thought if you threw your voice behind the petition to free Dobby, it'd be more likely to get published-"

"Hang on," Harry interrupted. "Aren't I a bit young to be a politician? And Skeeter will just make fun of it all." Then again, he hadn't seen anything from her in a while; he'd wonder what happened, except he was kind of thankful for it.

"Harry, you're the Boy Who Lived," she said, exasperatedly. "If you jumped off a bridge, half of the wizarding world would follow." He snorted at the image that called up. "And Skeeter's not writing articles anymore."

"Let me think about it, alright?" She opened her mouth, presumably to try to convince him more, but he spoke first. "Hermione, I want Dobby free just as much as you do. But I'm not sure if I'm ready for the constant scrutiny I got fourth year again." Just because he missed the adventures didn't mean he missed the fame. "There's other reporters out there just as immoral as Skeeter."

She bit her lip, no doubt remembering the deluge of hate mail they'd both gotten that year. The bubotuber pus. The Howlers. Why exactly did people care so much about teenagers anyway, even if one was the boy who lived? "I see. Give me your answer by next Thursday, after the Halloween dinner. There'll be no hard feelings either way."

* * *

Remus Lupin watched the thirty or so students, mostly first years, file into the Room of Requirement, and decided there was no bloody way he was going to teach them spells without another teacher present. Honestly, he was astonished Harry never had any serious injuries in his far larger club in his old fifth year, and not particularly surprised Lockhart's dueling club had lasted as little time as it did. Perhaps he'd ask Severus, as a little bit more of an apology for the whole almost killing him when they were in school thing (Sirius had mentioned in his latest letter that he knew Remus worried about that, and that it wasn't his fault, but really, Remus should have tried harder to control his friends).

But there were lessons that needed to be taught that didn't require spells, anyway.

He waited for them to take seats on the cushions scattered across the room. He hadn't consciously thought it, but perhaps the room had sensed it in his or one of his student's minds- the cushions were in house colors. At least they were intermixed, instead of, say, having a block of yellow Hufflepuff cushions in one corner. Still, the students gravitated towards their house colors. No one sat on the green cushions.

Harry took a seat towards the front, flanked by Hermione and Neville, an array of inter-house unity he hoped the others would follow, but knew was a fluke of one-time housemates being sorted differently than before. Harry only asked for a dueling club. Remus intended to give him, and more importantly, so much more. The world was supposed to be safer now.

But it was supposed to be safer last time, too, and back then, eleven year olds didn't die. Killed by someone he once considered a friend. He ought to become as paranoid as Moody.

Remus began in media res. "Never mix up dueling and fighting," he said, eyes scanning the group. "Dueling is honorable. Do some damage, get it healed, all is well and good." Most of the students would likely end up in government jobs, where dueling was the accepted method of settling certain grievances. "I hope all you'll ever need to use is dueling, but I didn't agree to teach you only that because a boy the same age as you died only a month ago." Hermione looked away at that.

"Dueling will… train your body and mind, rather like Quidditch building certain muscles, but the skill itself will not save you in battle." He wasn't a star duelist by any means, but he'd won a battle or two against Sirius, who'd trained in his youth when his parents still expected him to further the Black cause by going into government. Both of them still fell in the war last time around. "No one smart has honor on the battlefield."

Yes, he could see some of them here in the club today, some of those who died. "They will shoot a killing curse at you while you're mourning a fallen friend." The blond Ravenclaw girl was here, though the Slytherin boy who'd fallen whilst kneeling over her body wasn't. "They will not stop at mere injuries." The curly-haired Gryffindor was mauled by Fenrir, wasn't she? "They will attack you in the back, even if you're a non-combatant." That Hufflepuff with a strained smirk died fleeing the battle. "I am a Gryffindor, yes, and so I value bravery, but I value courage even more. Bravery is honor, and on the battlefield, honor is foolish. Courage is taking the action that might be morally reprehensible to let you save lives in the long run." _Courage is taking the action that might not let you sleep at night, but will at least let you lie awake besides your wife and son._

Harry raised his hand. "This is all very interesting, Professor, but when will we start learning spells?"

Remus resisted the urge to sigh, just barely. _Hogwarts failed them._ "Next time. This time, I want to teach you strategy. No calling your enemies down upon you by loud voices or flashing lights, for example, when if you don't draw their attention, you can be the one attacking. Be the three in the three against one instead of the one. Issues like that." _I'd rather teach them to survive than to remain sane._


	6. Trick

Harry Potter is Rowling's playground, not mine. Small violence warning for this chapter.

Thanks for the review, semantics!

* * *

Minerva McGonagall shut her book with an irritated sigh. "I don't know what to do, Irma. I still can't find any legal information to help the children in Azkaban, and none of the others have found anything useful, either. Severus started to joke about poisoning the Dementors."

Madam Irma Pince placed the stack of books she was carrying on the table and took a seat across from Minerva, her footsteps echoing loudly in the empty room. The library was closed for the evening, technically, but the teachers generally visited before and after official hours. Otherwise their students would stare at them, completely bemused by the idea that their teachers needed to visit the library occasionally too. Irma would also help them find the necessary books, if possible, whereas the students at least had to wait until she was free.

"I'm not completely sure Severus was joking, to be honest," Irma said. Minerva shrugged in response. She didn't know when he would have an opportunity or how he'd administer the poison, if he wasn't joking. They didn't visit the students; there was too much to do between Hogwarts duties and the research. "Have you tried focusing on the absence of a trial?"

"The trouble is they established legal precedent for sending people straight to Azkaban after the war." And that went bloody well, considering. The only people who received trials were the ones who could buy their way out of prison. "And I'm not sure if we want to overturn all the convictions, since the evidence is old enough that I don't know a guilty verdict would hold. We both know that the Carrows, Bellatrix Black, Lucius Malfoy and many of the other adults don't deserve freedom."

"But we do have at least one case where not having a trial went wrong," Irma pointed out, reaching across the table and resting her hand over Minerva's.

She smiled slightly. "Yes, and thankfully, Mr. Black has agreed to help us, but his example will only get us a trial." The Wizarding World had remarkably few due process laws, but at least it had that much. "There's no legislation related to future crimes."

Irma started to reply, then paused, furrowing her brow. "You may have something there, Minerva. Prophecies can't be used as evidence, if I remember correctly."

"Of course not," she replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Prophecies are bunk. They're cryptic, so you can interpret them wrong, and often as not they have multiple possible outcomes..." She trailed off, grinning at Irma. The woman was a genius. "So I see. Using evidence based on a dream that's already been disproved in several cases due to acting on evidence from the dream is even worse."

Irma stood, scooping her books up in her arms. "So it is. I suggest you look more into the specific wording of prophecies as evidence." She ducked her head, planting a kiss on Minerva's forehead before she left.

Many students had noted the similarity of Minerva's animagus markings to her spectacles, but few took note of the small black mark on her chest. Objects one wore constantly made a mark upon ones soul, and therefore appeared in one's animagus form, such as spectacles, or the traditional lockets exchanged in a Scottish wizarding marriage.

Minerva told her wife, "Thank you, I do believe I will."

* * *

Rita pulled the hood of her cloak over her head before entering the small wizarding village on the outskirts of the woods, fearing recognition. The Aurors lurked everywhere, it seemed. It was raining again, a soft, slow drizzle, so she could always claim her garb was protection from the elements.

She located an inn with an attached bar at the end of the muddy street, and made her way inside. Ugh. The room stank of cheap beer. Some people simply had no class. She found a dark corner to sit in where the ruckus left her untouched

And what a ruckus it was. Any gossip-monger worth her salt could recognize the drunken man in the center of attention. Gilderoy Lockhart, famous novelist. "And I'm the best man for the job, if I may humbly say so!" His eyes sparkled as he watched his fans lean in close. "The Potter child is too young to do it and the Aurors couldn't even kill him the first time around! Yes, I will find the fragment of You-Know-Who and destroy him!" Raucous cheering erupted around him- the man certainly knew how to handle a crowd.

The voice in her head spoke. _Pah! He's nothing. He'd probably break his neck in the mountains trying to find me. Why is he so famous anyway? I don't remember him!_

"He was after your time," Rita said under her breath. "He's killed a lot of monsters and wrote autobiographies about it." She watched the novelist sign an autograph for a young woman who giggled, nervously. He was their hero. "He could be useful." Besides, she'd agreed to host a Dark Lord in her head. She kind of wanted someone to share the culpability with.

 _Useful? How? Do-gooders won't ally with us._

And he thought he was a Dark Lord. She shimmied her way through the crowd, muttering pardons and slipping her way to the front, plastering a sappy grin on her face. "Mr. Lockhart, I'm a journalist, and I'd love to get an exclusive interview with you," she purred, passing him a firewhiskey she'd found abandoned on a table.

He didn't seem to care, throwing back a swallow easily. "I love exclusives. Is it going to be about my upcoming defeat of You-Know-Who?"

"Of course, of course." She reached for his hand. "Outside, perhaps? An interview is best done in private." Lockhart was a Ravenclaw. A Slytherin would have a feeling something was off by now.

 _What are you doing, Skeeter? It's a wonder he hasn't recognized you yet. I am not going to Azkaban because you couldn't keep your mouth shut!_

She ignored him, instead watching Lockhart, who grinned, accepting her offered hand. "Yes, you're right." He turned to leave, and the crowd parted before him, a marked contrast to the close mess she'd shoved through. Amazing. Yes, this was what they needed, a cult of personality. No one would believe anything bad of Gilderoy Lockhart, because, well, he was Lockhart.

Rita joined Lockhart on a bench outside, lit well by a streetlamp above. She took a notebook out of her cloak and a trusty Quick-Quotes Quill; not that she would use any of that information, but she had to keep up appearances. "So, Mr. Lockhart, if you succeed in defeating You-Know-Who, you'll be remembered for a while as a hero." _As if this fool could defeat me!_ "After all, Harry Potter was only a baby when he did so, and everyone still knows his name." _That was the prophecy's fault, not mine._ She ignored the Dark Lord, calmly watching for Lockhart's reaction.

He flashed that beautiful grin of his once again. "Well, of course that's not why I'll do it, dear, but it's nice to be recognized for my skills."

She frowned thoughtfully. "But you'll still be forgotten eventually. Do you remember Professor Binn's classes and how little attention anyone ever paid in them?" _Even in my day._ Rita suppressed a smile, wondering exactly how long the old ghost had taught. "How does it make you feel to know that someday children will be sleeping through lessons about you?" _Don't tell me they do that when they're about me._

"But surely they'll remember me forever?" Lockhart asked, his confident facade cracking slightly. "You-Know-Who is far more dangerous than a goblin rebellion." Thank you.

Rita crossed her arms over her chest. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hasn't done anything yet, though." _Well, if you'd let me…_ "Last time he did, Harry Potter took him down, and this time around... Well, not many cheer on the man who simply prevented something bad from happening."

He opened and closed his mouth helplessly a couple of times before he said, "I suppose you have a point." Lockhart buried his head in his hands, his sandy blonde hair catching the moonlight. "I don't think I want you to write this article."

 _Oh. I get it._ "Lockhart, how would you like to be remembered forever, to be the face of a new world? The stronger the threat the hero destroys, the more well-known the hero."

He looked up at Rita, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do I have to do?"

* * *

Harry sat at the end of Gryffindor's table for the Halloween Feast, and waved for Hermione and Neville to join him. He was closer to them than to any of his housemates, anyway. Hermione didn't even notice. "Wingardium Leviosa can't do that," she insisted to Morag MacDougall, who replied with some counter of her own, nervously looking away, while Padma Patil watched with obvious amusement.

Neville approached from the Hufflepuff table, though, brow furrowed in confusion. "What is it, Harry?"

"I asked Angelina, and she said we can switch tables during the feast," he explained. "I wanted to see if you and Hermione wanted to sit with me."

"That invalidates Harold's Fourth Law!" Hermione exclaimed, striding over to the two them while Padma mouthed the words 'you're wrong' behind her. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing. Obviously she didn't mind Ravenclaw too much. "I can't believe her."

"Harry wants us to sit with him for the feast," Neville explained, grinning widely. They'd tried to meet up as often as they could during the week and grown closer over time, though it was certainly different now that they weren't in the same house.

"I missed you guys, you know," Harry admitted quietly. "We used to spend all day together, have the same classes, sit together during meals. Or at least, we did in the dream."

Neville said, "I can understand that. Justin and Hannah are nice, but no one wants to be friends with Ernie." He shuddered, and Harry winced, remembering just how quick the Hufflepuff had been to jump to conclusions and shun him in the dream. Heir of Slytherin, really. "I swear, the boy's as bad as Malfoy, though maybe I wouldn't think that if Malfoy were actually here and I had to share a room with him."

Hermione shrugged. "And nobody's deliberately cruel in Ravenclaw that I've seen, but sometimes it seems like all we ever talk about is classwork and magical theory." She plopped down besides Harry, and Neville joined her. "We'll rotate tables though."

Trust Hermione to find the compromise- she was usually the one who ended up in between him and Ron in the dream world when they were fighting. He didn't say this aloud, though, instead asking, "So, how have the two of you been doing in Potions? I know now that Snape isn't evil," which didn't make his bitter attitude much less hurtful, "But he still hates me just as much."

Neville perked up. "I'm so much better at it this year! The Ravenclaws really takes the pressure off of me. Did you know Sue and Morag make an explosion practically every other class?"  
"How are they passing, then?" Harry asked. From what he remembered of Snape's class, potion accidents ruined grades, which was why Neville had barely passed in the dream world.

"Because they're geniuses who produce potions better than the standard when they don't blow them up," Hermione said matter-of-factly. She flushed when the other two stared at her. Admitting someone else was right was an older Hermione thing, not a now Hermione thing. "Well, Morag did have a point about Frederick's Third Postulate-" Food appeared on the table, hearty turkey and corn and baked potatoes that made Harry's mouth water just to look at it all. Oh good, he didn't have to admit he didn't know what Frederick's Third Postulate was. "Look, there's food! Let's eat!" she said quickly. Harry weighed the options of teasing Hermione on her hatred of admitting she was wrong or eating, and eating won out.

They were halfway through dessert when Harry noticed Dean frozen, staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed, his fork halfway to his mouth. Harry looked up.

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall showed the sky outside at all times- including when a glowing green Dark Mark hung high above Hogwarts. For a moment, he didn't dare to breathe. But the Death Eaters were all in prison. This wasn't right.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he turned to see Dumbledore rise from his seat, his expression grim. "Students, remain here and stay calm. The teachers and I will go investigate. Do not leave the Great Hall, and listen to your prefects." He motioned for the teachers to follow him and hurried towards the doors.

Every time voices started to rise from a low murmur into panic, a look from the Head Boy, a bespectacled black Hufflepuff, effectively quieted them, though nobody really seemed in the mood for eating anymore. Harry pushed his food around his plate with his fork, only noticing when Hermione gently grabbed his hand. Quietly, he asked, "Which of the towers do you think it's over? Trelawny didn't come down for supper, did she?" She didn't usually.

Neville bit his lower lip. "Don't think about that," he said. He managed to remain silent for a solid minute before he asked, "All the students are here this time around, right?"  
"After a troll showed up last time?" Hermione said harshly. "Some of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws stayed up in the towers. I was thinking of avoiding the feast myself, after nearly dying in the dream world. Where do you think Seamus, Lavender, Terry, and Sue are?" Harry bit his lip as she paused, scanning the room. Her voice dropped even further. "All the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins are here, though. A troll that was supposed to be in the dungeons? At least Dumbledore didn't send them to their common room this time around." Or she and Harry to their own, he knew she was thinking.

Harry turned when he heard a clatter of silverware from the Ravenclaw table. Padma had dropped her fork to her plate, eyes wide, and rose slowly from her seat. Penelope Clearwater's voice rang out before she could take a single step. "Padma, stay where you are and you'll be safe."

She shook her head, eyes wild. "You don't understand. The Dark Mark signals death, and technically, since it's on the ceiling, it's over the Great Hall."

That's when the lights went out. Harry grabbed for Hermione's hand as he futilely tried to squint through the darkness, as thick as that caused by the future Peruvian Darkness Powder. How did they manage to block out the stars and moon from the ceiling? The Dark Mark remained, but instead of letting off light, it just made the darkness seem deeper around it. "Lum-" Neville began to say besides him, but he gasped and stopped. "Hermione, that was my foot," he hissed under his breath.

A light flickered into existence at the other end of the room, and Hermione swore. "No, no, no, you don't call attention to yourself," she whispered frantically.

Blaise Zabini, one of the few first-year Slytherins, took a tentative step towards the door, holding his glowing wand up high. Several flashes of yellow light flew towards his position, and Harry stared, wide-eyed, as the light on Zabini's wand died, replaced by the tower of flame that consumed his body. Harry looked away, sickened, but not before he realized that some of the spells hadn't been aimed at Zabini- they'd been aimed around him, at the other Slytherins.

Someone nearby screamed at the sight, and Percy Weasley shouted, "Protego!" before the yellow beams of light could reach the student who'd just revealed themself. Harry pulled Hermione and Neville to the ground, reasoning they'd be less likely to be hit by any of the spells flying about this way. They were supposed to be safe this time-

Eventually the spells stopped, though as best as Harry could hear, no one had attempted to attack the Death Eaters. "Lumos maxima." A bright light stuck to the ceiling overhead, dimly illuminating the entire hall.

There was no sign of any cloaked Death Eaters, but Gilderoy Lockhart stood in the doorway of the Great Hall, his wand glowing and his face ashen. "I suppose this was a bad time to come ask Dumbledore about a job next year."


	7. Technicalities

AN: Harry Potter's world is JK Rowling's playground, not mine, and I'm very thankful she lets us borrow it.

* * *

Fred plopped down in a chair on one side of the hospital bed, as his twin followed suit on the other. The red-haired boy with thick white bandages along his face and wand arm, applied by a older student hoping to be a Healer someday, stared resolutely between the two of them. Madam Pomfrey hadn't been able to fully see to him yet, since the attack injured others worse. "Hey, Perce," Fred said, and his older brother finally met his gaze.

"I suppose you're here to tell me I was stupid and wrong to put myself in danger like that?" he said stiffly. "Or perhaps to congratulate me for my _bravery_." The acid in his words was almost so sharp Fred could taste it.

"Neither, actually," Fred said instead, though honestly when he'd come in here he hadn't been sure what his plan was. He'd almost gone to have a chat with Ron about it before realizing a portrait in the middle of the common room wasn't exactly private, and his little brother only knew what the portraits told him about the whole situation, anyway. "If you hadn't run out there, there would be more deaths, but I don't like to see my brother hurt."

"How many did die?" Percy asked, his tone far softer now. Of course. Fricking self-sacrificing idiot would probably blame himself for every child who so much as stubbed their toe, but someone would tell him eventually, so it might as well be them.

"None of the Gryffindors were even hurt besides you-" George started to say, but when he saw the look on Percy's face, he sighed. "Six Slytherins dead and five injured. Three of the Hufflepuffs are hurt, and so are two Ravenclaws. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws mostly are older students, because they shielded the first-years with their bodies. If Zabini hadn't been so stupid, we might still have some first-year Slytherins left." The Aurors only identified the charred husks of Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis through their absence among the survivors. Fred was no fan of Slytherins, but the children were eleven, dammit, and as far as he knew unconnected to the Death Eaters.  
"Zabini was eleven," Percy said, twisting his fingers together in his lap. "He was scared."

Fred leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "So were you. Don't think we don't know you're blaming yourself for Ron-"

"I should have gone to the bloody Aurors with my worries, not plopped a bloody murderer on the kitchen table." If this weren't so serious, Fred would have laughed at his older brother for actually deigning to swear, but he avoided both their gazes as he fiddled with something small and metallic. His prefect badge, worn smooth and dulled, in a way the Percy Fred had known only a few months ago would never allow it to become. Then again, the Percy he'd known would never resign from a position as prefect.

"You weren't to know," he argued, though he'd said it so many times he doubted Percy would hear it now. "The Aurors probably would have laughed you off as some kid with nightmares. Hell, we would of if we hadn't had the dream too." He sighed. "Perce, I know you never fit in with the rest of us. Wasn't like you were a typical Gryffindor, after all." Percy flushed bright red at that comment. Well, it was true. He was never supposed to go so far in the other direction from being a prat, though. "But that doesn't make our constant teasing of you alright. Nobody blames you for Ron's death, you know."

"Except Ginny," he murmured.

George laughed, a strangled, choking sound with really no humor in it at all. "Perce, you're off your rocker if you use Ginny as a guide. She blames Harry for not being there when we hadn't even met him yet except in the dream." And Fred didn't really think Ginny blamed any of them, except perhaps herself. They were one big mess of a family now, weren't they?

"It's the way she copes. She blames me for leaving my wand on the table," he said anyway, because he was not letting Percy change the subject to Ginny.

"That wasn't your fault," Percy argued, his lips set in a thin line. "It's not like you could have known-"

"Exactly. And neither could you."

Before Percy could reply, Madame Pomfrey hurried into their little section of the room, wand at her side, hair flying out of her bun. "Out," she ordered the twins. "Diana Temple is a lovely girl, really, but a Healer she is not, so I need to see to Mr. Weasley."

Fred wasn't going to argue, not when she looked that harried. He and his twin stood and turned to leave, but before he walked out, he said under his breath, half hoping Percy heard and half hoping he didn't, "We can't lose another brother."

* * *

Oliver surveyed his team. Fred and George hadn't played with their usual vigor this year in practices, which even he couldn't fault them for, and their seeker, Eliza Ahmad, was a good enough flier but really more of an agility enthusiast than a seeker. The girl could do some simply remarkable things on a broom without even losing the black scarf she wrapped her hair in, but put a snitch in front of her and she suddenly lost all fine motor skills. Not that he blamed her, since he wouldn't do any better in her place. He'd pleaded with McGonagall to let Harry onto the team, but she'd stood firm to her decision to make him abide by the rules for the rest of the first years. Pity, that. Didn't she realize Quidditch was more important?

Most of the teachers did. They'd canceled classes for the first Quidditch game of the season, a week after Halloween, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. "Now, don't hold back," Oliver told his team, pacing nervously up and down the locker room. "I know Terence Higgs, and even though his team's depleted right now," which was putting it mildly, since Flint and a few other members were in Azkaban, "he wouldn't want us to go easy on them. That just makes the game boring for everyone playing and watching."

He lead the way out onto the field, but froze when Eliza whispered to him, "You do realize Terence died in the Halloween attack, right?"

"I knew that," he lied, though really, was it a lie when he remembered hearing about it, when Dumbledore read off the list of the dead? When he'd just forgotten, or maybe not wanted to remember? He'd counted Terence among his friends. Terence, who'd died, and Percy, who grew more withdrawn by the day.

Quidditch was all he had left.

When Slytherin arrived at the pitch, he didn't notice the all black dress robes first. He noticed there were only six. The teams stepped forth to meet one another, and Oliver locked eyes with the Slytherin Keeper. It'd only been a week, really. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised they hadn't replaced Terence yet. "I heard you were his friend," the Keeper told Oliver.

Before he could reply, Lee Jordan announced, his voice trembling, "I have just been informed the Slytherins are forfeiting this match, as they haven't had time to choose a suitable captain. Gryffindor wins."

Oliver swallowed. "I was," he told the Keeper, over the dead silence of the crowd, more oppressive than any screams of rage. "Or at least I like to think so."

"Do you want to fly a memorial lap with us?" she asked.

He nodded, then turned to his team. "I won't make any of you come…"

"Don't be an idiot, Oliver," Fred said, as he mounted his broom. No one opted out, and the motley group made a slow, solemn circle about the stands.

Needless to say, there was no party in the common room to celebrate Gryffindor's win.

* * *

Harry met Hermione in the library later that day to work on the Letter. Somehow, after the events of Halloween, there'd been no question of him helping to free the house elves. He needed the distraction; of course the DADA and Dueling club hadn't been any sort of reprieve from talks about death. And unlike in the dream world, he couldn't do anything to find the killers. He knew he'd been helpless sometimes in the dream world, but really, far less often than he was now.

He hated being helpless.

Hermione helped him with the legal part of the letter meant to declare his allegiance to the world, but refused to coach him through the rest. "Harry," she said, "this isn't like your Transfiguration essays. It needs to be real. It needs to come from your heart."

"So, er... How does this sound?" he asked Hermione, unrolling the draft of the Letter he'd already completed nervously.

 _Dear Ministry of Magic, the Prophet, and all those who practice magic,_

 _I'm not very good at speeches, but I don't lie, so I hope you'll listen to me. Sometimes the world is very unfair. I should know that better than anyone. Sometimes complaining won't help, and we just need to keep a stiff upper lip, as my uncle would say._

 _But he also isn't very kind, so what does he know? Sometimes the brave thing to do is to fight back for fairness and equality. Many of you likely have house elves, and even more of you have heard about the arrest of future Death Eaters. Their house elves were taken in by the Ministry, just like their property. What are they doing with them? Well, no one knows. Maybe just using them as their own servants._

 _I propose that we free these elves._

 _Now, some of you are already turning away, convinced I'm just a boy raised by muggles who knows nothing about house elves. After all, house elves like being owned by wizards. They panic when offered freedom and do anything they can to please us._

 _Hear me out. I've met two freed house elves during the dream-life, Winky and Dobby. Winky hated being freed. She continued working for no pay and no time off even after magic didn't make her do it. Meanwhile, Dobby was overjoyed to work as a free elf in the Hogwarts kitchens for a Galleon a week and one day a month off, and to no longer have to beat himself whenever he said something his family wouldn't like. This was less than our headmaster even offered him. Would it hurt you that much to grant that small freedom to the elves who'd like it? Free them, and then see what they want, once they're able to have an opinion without having to hurt themselves._

 _The next argument will be that house elves aren't people. They're not humans, true, but they do have thoughts and feelings like any other magical creature. Have you ever felt the wrath of a hippogriff's pride, or had a conversation with a centaur or a goblin? House elves are not inferior. When I was seventeen, 'last time', Dobby took a knife for me. A house elf died for The Boy Who Lived. If it weren't for Dobby's sacrifice, I wouldn't have been able to kill Voldemort last time. (Or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if the Prophet strikes his name out.) Think about that._

 _What are you afraid of? Yes, free house elves might leave if you're cruel to them, but so would any other employee, and house elves are far more loyal to you. Perhaps you will have to pay them slightly, but a Galleon a week isn't very expensive considering how much you have to pay a normal housekeeper. Some house elves, like Winky, will work for you just the same as before they were free, but now they'll have the choice in it._

 _I have a friend who's figured out the exact legal information, which she can explain in a later letter, but it sums up to 'If we can arrest the Death Eaters because they'll commit crimes in the future, then keeping Dobby a slave when he expresses a desire for freedom in the future is illegal.' That's not why I want you to free the confiscated house elves, though._  
 _I want you to free them because it's the right thing to do._

 _Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived._

Hermione looked up at him from the letter, eyes shining. "Harry, this is amazing! Not everything is the way I would have worded it, of course, but I suppose it's better this way... You really convey the ethical and moral problems with the house elf crisis." She shoved it back into his startled hands. Oh, you should post it as is, I don't want to spoil the message by changing your wording." Slightly startled, he followed her up on to the Owlery to begin using his fame for good.

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart's hand inched towards his wand, because the way Rita Skeeter's hands twisted about an invisible neck really had him worried. "You weren't supposed to kill anyone," she hissed. Wasn't she a Slytherin? He'd found even non-Parselmouth Slytherins hissed quite a bit.

"I didn't mean to kill them," he said, because really he'd just wanted to singe the boy a little, but apparently robes were quite flammable. "But it was dark! Why were we fighting in the dark again?"

She gritted her teeth, as he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the completely uninhabited nature of the forest they stood in; he was sure she snarled loud enough to be heard a kilometer away. "So the students wouldn't see us, Gilderoy, or did you want to lose all the love they have for you?" Well, obviously not, or he wouldn't be participating in this scheme to get yet more fame. Before he could say that, though, Rita sighed, tugging nervously as her blond hair, not nearly as nice as his of course. "Foolish of me, but I never expected it to get this serious. I'm a Slytherin; I should be capable of controlling one shadow of a dark lord and the remnants of his cult. Bloody hell, manipulating people is one of the first lessons they teach us!"

Gilderoy wished, just a little, that he'd been a Slytherin. Then again, everybody knew Slytherins were manipulative, so would he have been found out? Though of course Slytherins became even more manipulative to compensate, so maybe it would have honed his skills… Truly a question for the ages.

He was about to ask Rita what she thought when he caught the end of her rant. "-I should just turn myself in, where he can't hurt anyone."

Where under Veritaserum, she'd sing like a bird about his involvement. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that," he said, yanking his wand out of its holster. "Obliviate." So maybe his first reaction wasn't always the best.

Rita's eyes glazed over vacantly, and Gilderoy snapped, "You are really quite impressed by my handling the Hogwarts situation with minimal loss of life-"

"Oh, do shut up," she drawled. He stared, because the voice was right, but the tone was all wrong. She lifted a foot, and stumbled, bracing herself against a tree. "How does she walk in these monstrosities?"

Gilderoy swallowed. He'd thought she'd just used the story about You-Know-Who to lend herself credibility, much like him and many of his stories. "Er," he said, because what else could he say?

Not-Rita rolled her eyes. "Yes, you're very useful. It's so much easier to take possession of an empty brain, did you know? No, I don't suppose you would." Gilderoy briefly considered running away and screaming, before he remembered that Rita having an issue with killing didn't mean anything to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Not-Rita prodded her head experimentally. "You're good with memory charms. Hardly any damage at all, and I can already feel her coming back."

"Do you want me to do it again?" he asked, because he knew a chance for self-preservation when he saw one. Gilderoy didn't particularly want to destroy Skeeter's sanity, but if it were him or her…

The wizard occupying the woman's form considered this, stroking her chin. "No, I don't think so. I'd rather not see what happens when the mind is broken while I'm sharing the body, and this was always meant to be a temporary arrangement anyway. Do do it about once every month or so, though. It's nice to have control-"

Rita blinked. "We were talking about the attack on Hogwarts, right?" Lockhart nodded mutely. "He really does feel quite gleeful. I suppose it must be due to that."

"It must," Lockhart agreed hoarsely, the full enormity of the situation crashing down upon him. He wasn't participating in some scheme by a disgraced reporter to further propel himself into fame. He was working with You-Know-Who and the woman who'd joined up with him to avoid Azkaban. He was a Death Eater, albeit without the Dark Mark.

He glanced at Rita, who was babbling something or other about planning their next move. And an Obliviate wouldn't get him out of this one.


	8. Image

**JK Rowling's world, not mine. Also, I swear this wasn't meant to be so dark and gloomy.**

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart leaned back on the sun chair by his pool, making sure to flash his sparkling white teeth before taking a careful sip of red wine. Yes, he looked completely the part of the carefree star. He lifted the glass high in the air. "A toast, Mr-"

The reporter flushed nervously, his face matching his hair, a flaming red. "Marcus. Marcus Weasley. You saved my cousin Percy's life during the Halloween tragedy, sir."  
He kept the smile plastered on his face as he tried to remember if there'd been a Percy in his hospital visits. Ah, yes. Tall redhead, quite angry, stupidly risked his life. Very Gryffindor of him. "He was quite brave, yes. Mr. Weasley, let's raise our glasses to a better future than the one we remember."

A better future he'd bring about. He ignored the twinge of guilt, as he was so used to doing by now. He hadn't meant to kill Zabini, after all, only singe him a little, but his death would bring about a better, safer world, right? How many glasses had he drank already? None of them were supposed to die...

Weasley bobbed his head eagerly. "Of course, sir, of course." He gulped at the wine, and Gilderoy's fake smile grew. Always keep the reporters off-balance, of course. Most of them were rather good at twisting words, but only when they were the ones in control. Except Skeeter. She'd been a vicious one, hadn't she? He admitted to being glad to have her on his side for once. In the past he'd obliviated her twice already, three times if one included in the dream. Four if you included… No. He was not counting the time he'd inadvertently let the Dark Lord possess her. He'd only do it again if he had to.

"So, er, sir, we, that is, the Prophet would like to know what you think of Harry Potter's, er, campaign to free the house elves-"

"Oh, I support him fully," Lockhart said, lazily inspecting his fingernails. No reason to fight it on their end, not enough of a one to draw attention to themselves anyway. "Never saw the need for them. I travel too much. Besides, he says one of them saved his life, and we should be helping anyone who dares to fight back against You-Know-Who. I dare say that-" He paused, remembering what Rita had told him. Don't move too quickly, or give a hint of what you're doing. This is a war fought on two fronts. You are all the more famous for defeating a menace than a gnat. "Well, you can read all about it in my new book, Horror at Hogwarts. A quarter of total profits will go to support house elf research, so we can see if there is some sort of old magic keeping the elves complacent, and another quarter of the funds will go to extra defenses for Hogwarts." It wasn't like he needed more money, not with all that he had already.

"What kind of extra defenses? Isn't Hogwarts the safest place in the wizarding world?" Marcus asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Lockhart asked, sipping his drink. "After all, it was certainly the safest place during the last war. But ask Dumbledore about the curious string of petrifications during the year when I myself taught in the dreamworld. Ask him about the incident that landed Harry Potter in the hospital wing at the end of his first year."

Now he delved into events that he'd only learned of after the dream, since after the second year of it there was an irritating mental blankness. He hadn't woken like those who died; the remainder of the dream was just so much white noise. Since the last thing he recalled seeing was Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, he rather suspected it was due to them, but one was dead and the other a hero, so he couldn't very well ask. "Ask them about the break-in of Sirius Black and the effects the dementors, rather badly chosen guards if I do say so myself, had on the children. Admittedly, we know now Black was innocent, but any proper defenses should still have kept him out. And then there was the fiasco with the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Need I continue?"

No, Zabini and the others were not his fault. Dumbledore couldn't keep the school safe, if he could kill students so easily by accident. There were casualties in war, and there had to be a villain before there could be a hero.

"No, sir," said the reporter, having gone pale. "I see what you mean. Are you saying-"

"Do not presume, Marcus," Lockhart said lazily, though inside his heart was hammering. What if he'd gone too far? He didn't want to ruin himself in the public eye, and if he followed the plan, he would never have to, but it was very easy to overstep. "Albus Dumbledore is an amazing man and a better headmaster than I could ever hope to be. All of that young talent concentrated in one place invites trouble. I am merely saying we could do more to stop it. When that Dark Mark fell over Hogwarts-" He gave a shudder, only partially faked. A Dark Mark over Hogwarts... It somehow violated the sanctity of the school. He visibly gathered himself. "But you can read all about it in my new book, Horror at Hogwarts."

Also known as stage one.

* * *

Snape skimmed the front page of the Prophet at breakfast, grimacing at the section on the Slytherins forfeiting their last Quidditch match. Of course, it claimed they forfeited because they knew they had no chance against Gryffindor after losing so many players. Which was true, but that gave them no right to completely omit the joint memorial service. With both that and the section claiming Gilderoy Lockhart was the savior of Hogwarts and the teachers were negligent during the Halloween tragedy for leaving their students in the Great Hall, he actually considered writing a letter to complain.

Not that it would do much. He flipped to the next page and halted at the two-page spread proclaiming, "Boy-Who-Lived Campaigning for the Current Freedom of Future Free House Elves." What had Potter gotten himself into now? And why couldn't he pick a better time to do it?

As he read the article, including the letter Potter sent in, he paled. This... could be a problem.

After Potions later that day, as the students in the Gryffindor-Sly... in the Gryffindor class were packing up, he called out, "Potter, stay after class for a word, please." Remembering the 'friend' mentioned in the letter and Granger's campaign in the dream, he almost added that she stay too, before he remembered her new Ravenclaw status.

Once the classroom had emptied besides the defiant boy who so resembled his childhood tormentor, Snape withdrew his newspaper from his desk. "I wonder if you've realized exactly what manner of a beast you and Granger have unleashed," he commented, keeping a calm expression despite his fury.

"What's that supposed to mean, Professor?" Potter challenged. Not unexpected.

"Your letter, Potter. First, you told the world that the people Dumbledore placed you with were unkind. How long before his good name is mud?" Not that he supported Albus placing Potter with Petunia Dursley; from what Lily said, the woman was utterly terrified of magic. But Dumbledore might be the only person who could keep the school and everyone in it safe, should the Death Eaters who somehow hadn't been arrested, whoever they were, return.

"I didn't-" Potter started, stricken.

Snape waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, you didn't mean to." That part of the letter might be explained away easily enough with a follow-up, maybe saying Potter was overreacting, but another section was far more dangerous. "I assume you also didn't mean to doom fellow children to life in Azkaban?"

"What?" He studied his expression. Yes, Potter really did have no idea. If the fool actually thought about consequences, he'd be far better at potions. At least the Ravenclaws thought about consequences. They just were poor at deciding when the consequences were actually worth the scientific advancement. (Severus was fairly sure if anyone were to destroy the world or break the Statue of Secrecy irreparably it would be a Ravenclaw. Plenty of brains but no common sense.)

But Potter, unfortunately, was not a Ravenclaw nor a Slytherin, and so had nearly no ability to logically think his way through a process. Normally, Snape wouldn't have bothered to explain, but the dunderhead's actions were hurting some of his few remaining snakes. "A major component of wizarding law is precedent, Potter. Prove something once and you never have to prove it again. Prove that knowledge of the future is enough to free a house elf and you prove to the minds of wizard legislators that knowledge of the future is enough to put a criminal away." Even if they were eleven, and not bloody screwing up as badly as he did last time might save them from becoming Death Eaters. He rubbed his Mark unconsciously.

"So?" Harry asked. "I mean, isn't that already proven, with prophecies and divination and all? It's not like I'm changing anything."

Snape scowled. "Potter, you should listen in History of Magic at least once a month. Prophecies are inadmissible in court due to their clouded natures. But this dream is different, detailed. The members of this school currently in Azkaban were convicted based on evidence from the dream. I could free them if I can argue that future evidence based on a dream that's already inaccurate isn't substantial enough for a conviction." Minerva had near shone with joy when she told him. It was frankly somewhat disturbing.

Wonder of wonders, Potter understood, his eyes narrowing in thought. "And I'm important enough that I could easily convince people that the dream is accurate and free Dobby, at the cost of destroying your cause by convincing people that the arrests are completely legitimate."

Snape nodded, hoping against all hope Potter wouldn't be a complete moron. "The freedom of one house elf- since you don't have proof any of the others even desire freedom- versus the freedom of almost forty of your peers." Around half the population of Slytherin, plus an older Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw or two. "I'm sure you can see the logic."

Potter stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Foolish child- he could already see in those green eyes so like Lily's that he was about to do something Gryffindor. "Except my so-called peers became Death Eaters, and even before they did, they tormented the entire school. Slytherins made my life miserable. I'm not going to stop campaigning for Dobby and the others' freedom, sir." He spat the word, glaring. "Frankly, I think Malfoy and the rest got what was coming to them." He stalked out of the room.

Snape stared into the empty Potions classroom, the abode of a Head of House for whom only a fraction of the house remained. He'd never thought that failing to save his students in the dream would resonate over into real life. He slumped in his seat, holding his head in his hands. Merlin, his house was doomed.

* * *

Auror Alastor Moody scanned the dirt until he spotted an overturned, frost-covered leaf. "Revelio," he muttered. It revealed a less-frosted rock. "Revelio." That revealed a bit of dirt. He considered casting Revelio on that, too, but decided digging down to the magma level of the Earth wouldn't actually help him find You-Know-Who.

Auror Shacklebolt frowned at him like the insolent pup he was. "Alastor, there's constant vigilance and then there's making up work. Unless you actually thought You-Know-Who was hiding under that rock?"

Moody fixed his magical eye on Shacklebolt. "We've already killed every rabbit, deer, bird, and mouse in this forest. The Minister insists He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named still lives in this forest. Therefore, since we don't want to get fired and have little to no ability to affect anything when the Death Eaters go on a killing spree through Diagon Alley, we continue to search."

Shacklebolt sighed, but proceeded to set a tree on fire and stun all the sweet little woodland creatures that vacated it. "We're destroying the ecosystem," he pointed out. Moody gave him a flat look, and cast Homenum Revelio instead of just hitting each of the assorted birds, squirrels, and insects with Blasting Curses. "You could have been doing that the whole time, couldn't you?"

Disappointingly, none of the stunned bodies turned into the Dark Lord or Rita Skeeter, though one did morph into a pair of half-naked tourists in lurid green robes. "Sightseers," Moody grumbled, instead of answering the question. So he might be a little trigger-happy. Nothing wrong with that. "Time to break out the Veritaserum."

Before he could set to interrogating the couple just to make absolutely certain they weren't Death Eaters, Shacklebolt asked, "When do you suppose he'll recall us?"

The older Auror took a swig from his hip flask. "Why, when he figures out a way to make it clear that losing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is all our fault, not his, of course."

* * *

"Hullo, Ron," Percy said, pulling an armchair nearer to the fire. His portrait-brother bounced on his heels. He seemed to have the energy of a six-year-old Ron instead of an eleven-year-old one, sometimes. Of course, all the other eleven-year-olds had already gone to bed, and most of the older students too; it was well past the wrong side of midnight, and the fire burned low. The house elves didn't want to come in, Percy supposed, with him sitting there.

"I heard you're a hero now too," Ron said, smirking a little, and which portrait had his dear little brother picked that one up from?

"Did Fred and George tell you about that?" Percy asked. "They probably made it sound far more impressive than it actually was." He changed the subject, quickly. He'd talked about all the death far more than he would have liked. "Mum and the others will come up and visit for Christmas, they said. Before we go home, I mean." He didn't mention the Project. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to afford a portrait for home.

Ron grinned, taking a seat in the grass. "That'll be nice. I miss them so much. Is Ginny still angry at you?" Percy winced. "She'll get over it," his brother reassured him.

Well, of course that was what Portrait-Ron would think. See, Percy had done some reading up on portraits during the free time his lack of prefect duties afforded him, because he'd wanted to know exactly how much of his brother he had left.

Portraits weren't so much an implant of the personality of their subject as… an impression. Should the artist see the person they paint a portrait of while the subject was drunk, the resident of said portrait would be forever drunk, even if that was the first and only time they touched a drop of alcohol in their lives. As far as he could tell from the cryptic hints the twins dropped when they thought he wasn't listening, Ron hadn't been painted by a traditional painter, instead made from pure magic and some ritualistic promises. (He did always tell the twins they could do great things if they only tried. Well, creating a portrait overnight without anyone finding out certainly qualified.)

But he still showed all the signs. Percy figured the lens his personality had been filtered through was that of two grieving older brothers who remembered their little brother as a boy who could do no harm and saw the best of everyone. If You-Know-Who were to walk through the portrait hole right then and there, Portrait-Ron would ask what his favorite Quidditch team was. He'd never point this out to the twins, of course. Having one-dimensional Portrait-Ron was infinitely better than not having Ron at all, and there were far worse aspects of his baby brother the twins could have immortalized forever. (Like his tendency to be jealous and insensitive, which Percy emphasized with perhaps a little too much.)

But he remembered other aspects of his brother, too. Maybe it was a little greedy of him to want the brilliant strategist he'd known in later years, or the boy who was brave enough to risk his life against the Death Eaters in the hope of a better life and more safety for his family, even when a certain foolish sibling was telling him not to, or the brother who, yes, sometimes was a prat. Maybe it was a little pitiful how badly he wanted Ron back.

"Percy?" asked Portrait-Ron, waving a hand. "Why won't you say anything?"

Percy blinked away the salty wet in his eyes and pulled an end table in front of his armchair. "No reason, really. Just a bit tired, is all. Want to play a game of chess before I go to bed?" he asked. Ron nodded eagerly, and Percy set up the game.

Portrait-Ron always lost, but at least he existed to play.


	9. Chamber

**JK Rowling's world, and I am not she. Less depressing. I said I'd go less depressing.**

 **... As Ursula Le Guin said, a novelist's business is lying. Please don't hate me. This is also a short chapter, since it's only one viewpoint.**

* * *

Remus Lupin had loudly objected to the plan to defeat the basilisk for quite the length of time before McGonagall (alright, he still had trouble thinking of his once teacher as Minerva) said, "Name one other person alive today who's a non-evil Parseltongue and we'll use them instead." He couldn't really argue with that logic.

But he could insist on being included in the expedition, and he laid a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder, still feeling slightly uncomfortable about waiting in a girl's bathroom. Obviously Salazar had Sirius's sense of humor; Padfoot had roared with laughter when he heard about it, or so he said in his letter. Remus was looking forward to seeing his old friend again.

The young ghost bobbed up and down, grinning. "-And I never get visitors, oh, but I do remember you, Harry, why didn't you come visit earlier this year? You look shorter than last time I saw you-"

"That's because you're remembering a time that hasn't happened yet, Myrtle," Harry snapped, exasperated. "Will you please shut up so I can concentrate?"

She wailed, diving off into one of the toilets. Remus groaned as he heard a pipe burst. Yes, Moaning Myrtle was not helping with his comfort levels. If he hadn't been so nervous about the upcoming plan, he would have been able to appreciate the irony of the situation- him isolated in the prison of the Shrieking Shack during the full moon, and trapped in other ways, never able to so much as raise his voice against a student least a parent accuse him of not controlling his werewolf nature, oddly comparable to Myrtle's loneliness as she spent eternity wandering the Hogwarts bathrooms. But he wasn't of a mind for introspection right now.

Minerva turned to Harry, her wand already out. "Are you ready?"

He rolled his eyes. "Open." He frowned as the teachers gave him matching looks of confusion and no magical passage opened up. "That was in English, wasn't it?" He tried again, making a strangled hissing noise. The sink in the center of the bathroom moved aside, opening a tunnel into the depths of the castle.

As the Aurors behind them hustled Harry away to a safer location, Minerva, Severus, Flitwick, Pomona, and Remus mounted school brooms they'd brought with them to ride down into the Chamber. (Albus was waiting outside as a second line of defense with Fawkes. If they failed, the basilisk must not be released upon Europe, and Albus was the only one who could battle it to a standstill, though it would cost much in the process. Possibly the entirety of Scotland.)

Remus grabbed a rooster cage and at a nod from Minerva, led the way down into the chamber. They'd had Harry describe the room in detail several times before the expedition, but he still paused, startled, at the sheer size of the gigantic shed basilisk skin in the entry corridor. He could hear Pomona gasp in surprise, and that reminded him he wasn't alone. "Remember," Severus whispered. "We drop the cockerels off and leave, then come back for the dead basilisk's fangs at the end of the break. No need for anyone to be a hero." This last was said sharply, and Remus imagined he was glaring at the backs of his and Minerva's heads as he said it. He stifled a small grin at the thought. Severus had certainly changed since he last knew him.

Just drop the rooster and leave. He could do that. They weren't even to dismount from their brooms. Only Pomona and Minerva had been Quidditch players out of the lot of them in their day, Pomona a beater (The sweet, grandmotherly Hufflepuff head laughed when Remus looked doubting at that) and Minerva a seeker, but all of them had enough of a proficiency on their brooms to be faster on them than on their feet.

Remus stared as he swooped into the Chamber, at the vaguely Grecian columns and the entwined serpentine statues. Trust a Slytherin to design something so self-aggrandizing.

He dove close to the floor and deposited his cockerel behind a pillar, turning about to leave. He froze. The magical light he'd attached to his broom reflected off a shining, green, moving mass... Of _course_ it had to wake sometimes to feed. Of course it had to wake _now_ to feed. He closed his eyes, wondering both how to warn the others and how to get out of the chamber without being able to see. Perhaps they'd been so eager to remove the creature they hadn't planned properly.

A strangled scream split the air. It was high pitched, a woman's. Pomona or Minerva? He didn't know, but he shot towards the noise as quickly as he could. Would she scream if she'd been petrified or killed? Would she have time to? She'd silenced now, and Remus was torn between believing she'd just quieted to keep from alerting the basilisk to her location- helpful, but not perfect, considering their sense of smell- or that she'd stopped because she couldn't scream anymore. Damn, but he hated feeling helpless.

A forceful wind was the only warning he had before something slammed into his side. The wall, maybe? It knocked the breath out of him and sent him flying off at an angle. He stifled a scream as he hit something else, hard and unyielding- no, _that_ was the wall, before was the snake- and heard a sharp crack as pain blossomed through his arm and shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he struggling to stay aloft. And he didn't even know how the others fared.

He jerked his unbroken arm away when something clamped around it. "Will you stop struggling, you infuriating mongrel? I'm trying to help you," Severus said, in a long-suffering tone. "Minerva, Filius, and I just drank philters of Echolocation. I would give you one, but your astonishing inability to avoid even the sides of the room leads me to doubt you'll be any good for getting yourself out. Just follow. Minerva insists on being the rearguard."

Severus, insulting him while helping him? He wasn't sure whether that kept his faith in the way of the world steady or shook it irreversibly. One missing name caught his attention, though. "What about Pomona?"

"With Filius," Severus said curtly, refusing to elaborate further. He kept a tight grip on his arm as he led him through the twists and turns of the Chamber at a breakneck speed. Through the rushing of the wind in his ears, Remus could hear the slithering of the snake behind, and he hoped Minerva was flying fast enough. Eventually they rose though the initial passage and Severus brought him to the floor outside. A rush of wind flew by them and Minerva shouted, "Have Harry shut the Chamber, now!"

Remus cautiously opened his eyes and nearly fell off his broom in an attempt to dismount to the floor of the bathroom. Harry hurried towards them, wide-eyed, followed closely by the Aurors. He made a hissing noise, and the Chamber crashed shut behind them. Hopefully, the awakened basilisk wouldn't find all the cockerels before any had a chance to crow. He stumbled a step, before freezing as he realized exactly why Severus refused to say anything about Pomona.

Near the entrance to the bathroom, Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey leaned over the Herbology professor, who bled sluggishly from a slice in her leg. Only one cure for basilisk venom... Lupin leaned heavily against the wall, supporting his broken arm with his other hand, watching as Dumbledore begged Fawkes, "Please, just a single tear. Please... Cry for her, Fawkes. Pomona's a hero! She doesn't deserve to die. She wasn't meant to die!" His voice was reaching levels of desperation now, a tone Remus thought he would never hear from his childhood hero. He hadn't even known Dumbledore could beg.

Lupin noticed Harry staring, and he said harshly to the Aurors, "What are you waiting for? Get him out of here!" Shocked out of their frozen state, they nodded and hurried the boy out.

Remus would not have James's son seeing thestrals at only eleven years old. Then he remembered that Harry could likely already see thestrals. After the Halloween incident, and, god, after all the memories... Hogwarts had been far safer in his day.

He took up pleading alongside Dumbledore, tears welling up, but unshed. If only a werewolf's tears were the cure. The haughty bird stared at them, unmoved. "Fawkes, she was helping to save this entire school!"

Other voices joined theirs in begging. "Pomona never has an unkind word to say about anyone, even me." Severus.

"She's the most loyal person I've ever met, Fawkes. She deserves your tears." Minerva.

"She's always so nurturing to all her students, even as the rest of us get caught up in house rivalries." Filius.

"Even a single tear would save her! Just one. You cried for Harry in the old world. Why won't you cry for her? Why?"

"Albus... she's gone."


	10. Holidays

**Not my presid- Universe. Not my universe.**

* * *

Minerva waited with Irma and the Aurors in Hogsmeade for Sirius Black to pick up his godson. Well, Irma, the Aurors, and Harry, who looked askance at the woman he'd always thought of only as a stuffy old librarian waiting with his teacher. She didn't really feel the need to explain, not now. She just needed her wife's reassuring presence at her back.

Sirius looked… older, she thought, when he Apparated into the village square. Of course, it'd been a good ten years since his arrest and the last time she'd seen him, but ten years did not put so many lines on a man's face, nor weigh his shoulders so heavily. Azkaban and the loss of his friends had brought him from a child, to an old man. What did that make her, then? Probably ancient.

She drew him aside somberly. He had to understand, before he took Harry. "Remus is in the Hospital Wing," she said, before he even had a chance to ask. His panic flashed across his face, so she immediately shook her head. "He's fine, Sirius, just a broken arm and shoulder. Madame Pomfrey mended it easily. She just wants to keep him for observation for a few hours because it involved a joint, and make sure none of the mobility is impaired. He'll be with you and Harry in time for dinner."

Sirius, for all his flaws, had never been a stupid man. He asked the question she would have had one of her students given that explanation. "And what was Remus doing- he said the attack on the Chamber of Secrets would be safe!"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "He did, did he? He's certainly gotten better at lying since his school days." Whenever the Marauders played pranks in their school days, she'd targeted Remus as the most likely to admit to the prank. "Of course there was risk. We were killing Slytherin's monster. But we were insanely lucky last time that none of the students died, and we couldn't count on that luck to work out twice," she said.

"Luck didn't work out, did it?"

She said it quickly, because if she lingered over the words she'd certainly lose her composure. "The beast woke up to feed, presumably on rodents. Of course, it smelled us. It bit Pomona- Professor Sprout," she corrected herself upon Sirius's look of incomprehension, "and smashed Remus into the wall. We escaped, and had Harry close the chamber, but Pomona succumbed to the basilisk's poison."

There. She'd said it. Hur-bloody-rah. They'd won, really. It could have turned out so much worse. They could have all died. At a certain point, luck runs out, and it seemed some days they'd used all theirs up in another lifetime.

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again when it became obvious he had no idea how to put any his thoughts into words. Finally, he managed to say rawly, "The basilisk. Is it dead?"

"It will die," Minerva said, meeting his eyes with her steely gaze. "Roosters don't just crow in the morning. If the basilisk moves to kill one of them, the frightened bird will sound off and the beast will die. And Albus is going into the Chamber with us at the end of the holidays. If the beast isn't dead yet, he will kill it. It was supposed to be safer this way." And it was, really. She knew Pomona. She'd rather of died any day than lose a student to the beast.

"Did you hear about Lockhart's interview?" Sirius asked. "He told the Prophet Hogwarts wasn't safe. How many people is that dead this year? Seven?"

Minerva winced, but Irma rested a hand reassuringly on the small of her back and answered, "Eight. Ronald Weasley was killed by Pettigrew."

Sirius stared at her red-rimmed eyes, and shook his head, slowly. "He wasn't your students yet, Professor, Madam."

Minerva smiled, a bitter grin with absolutely no amusement in it. "Ever since the day he arrived at Hogwarts in a dream, he was. Most of wizarding Britain under the age of forty will always be my students." _And I mourn every single one of you, now or in the dream._

He couldn't respond to that. She wasn't sure if anyone could, really. Pomona hadn't been her student, unlike the other seven, but she'd been friends with her during her school days. Instead, Sirius simply nodded to her and took Harry's hand, Disapparating.

Now that the Boy-Who-Lived was safe, the Aurors left too, one by one, some casting regretful looks back at Minerva. Many of them had been her students, too. Soon, they left her and Irma alone in Hogsmeade's Square.

Irma rested her head on Minerva's shoulder. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but we're winning," she murmured. "Remember how many people died in the final battle last time, including Pomona? We'll prevent the dark ending."

"With a dark beginning?" Minerva asked, though she knew her wife was right. Yes, Pomona and a cadre of innocent students were dead. Yes, there were children in Azkaban. Yes, You-Know-Who was running about causing trouble, or at the very least some of his followers were. Yes, the world was turning against Hogwarts.

On the other hand, the basilisk was dead. An innocent man had been released from Azkaban, and was on the road to recovery, while some of the darkest torturers in the history of Wizarding kind were imprisoned. Nearly all of You-Know-Who's horcruxes were destroyed. Even as the world turned against Hogwarts, the houses unified against the common threat. Her students were free enough to concentrate on things like house elf freedom instead of staying alive, even if it made it harder for her to free the imprisoned.

"Light would have no meaning were it not for the darkness," Irma said, summing up her thoughts as she took her hand to walk back to Hogwarts.

* * *

Percy Weasley wasn't expecting the fake cheer his parents tried to interject into their Christmas holidays. It almost would have hurt less if everyone were somber. But no, the twins were catching up on their prank-pulling (Percy wondered if they thought nobody had noticed they hadn't pulled any at school this year), and Bill and Charlie wore constant, careful smiles. Only Ginny showed her true feelings, which were more sullen than sad.

It was as if they were all playing a careful game of pretend, a facade that was already wrought with cracks. Charlie excused himself from the dinner table after Mum accidently set out an extra plate, and Bill snapped at Ginny for some minor slight. Fred and George's pranks were far gentler than normal, and Dad had stopped working on the flying car entirely. They'd even taken down the clock, likely so the missing hand wouldn't serve as a constant reminder, as the portrait in the Gryffindor common room had.

He remembered Fred dying in the dream world. He wondered if this had been what his house was like afterwards. The dream ended shortly after the battle did, and Percy woke in the early morning sun with his rat staring at him. He should have known he was Pettigrew, that the dream was real. Everyone acted strangely after the dream, from Fred and George being more protective of each other and not immediately teasing him about his scholarly pursuits to Ron's nonchalance about his upcoming sorting.

"Are you still beating yourself up over everything, Perce?" Charlie asked, plopping down besides him on the couch.

Charlie had always been the brother of his who was kindest to Percy, never teasing him for his academic ambition and adherence to rules, so Percy made an effort not to be snappish when he said, "You're not the first to ask, and no, nothing you say is going to change my mind."

"Suit yourself," Charlie said calmly. "Just don't go around getting yourself hurt all the time like you did at Halloween. That's not the point of being a hero, Perce." Percy bit his lip to keep from pointing out that other members of their family had gotten awfully hurt during the Second Wizarding War. After all, the aim of everyone during this version of now seemed to be things turning out different. Well, things were certainly turning out different, weren't they?

"Anyway," said Charlie, either unaware of the nature of Percy's inner thoughts or simply ignoring them- Percy was never sure how well his brother could read him-, "I actually wanted to ask you a favor." Percy frowned, wondering what Charlie could want from him. "Remember Norberta, the Norwegian Ridgeback I told you about at the sanctuary in the dream world?" He nodded. "Well, last time Hagrid helped me find her. She was originally owned by a dealer in dangerous animals, as an egg, and Hagrid made a difficult bargain to save her for me. Can you ask him when you get back to school for the year to keep an eye out for her for me? If it's not too much trouble?"

"Of course," Percy said, smiling slightly in relief that it wasn't like Mum and Dad pushing for him to take back his Prefect's badge or urgings to keep up in his studies. (Of course, he was keeping up, but his teachers kept asking him if there was something wrong, besides the obvious. He supposed that one E on a Transfiguration essay had McGonagall worried. Technically speaking, exceeds expectations was lower than she expected of him, and wasn't that a fun one to wrap one's head around?)

"Now, do you take Care of Magical Creatures? Larry says, and I agree, that we have rather the shortage of caretakers with more brains than most rocks at the sanctuary." Larry was Charlie's coworker at the sanctuary. That summer, before everything went to hell, Percy and Bill had started taking bets as to how long it would be before Charlie declared his undying love for the bloke or something given the way he looked when he talked about him. Since Larry hadn't even been mentioned in the dream, nor any other boy nor girl friends, obviously they'd both lost their bets, but caring about his brother's love life had taken a backseat to everything else going on.

"No, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Fred and George take it, though," he replied, slightly perplexed. Now he was trying to offer him a job for later?

Charlie chuckled. "Yes, but can you imagine those two with access to dragons?" Percy paled slightly as he remembered what havoc their inventions had wrecked over time. "Exactly. Well, think about it, alright? We could still use analysts instead of more grunt workers like me, and I know how much you love analyzing things."

Percy nodded, thoroughly confused by now, as Charlie got up to go talk to the twins, who stood together by the fireplace fiddling with one of the decorations suspiciously. Before he could let his thoughts wander again, Bill approached him, grinning. "So, did I tell you about this new job I got? Seems the Flamels have this really old vault with a lot of ancient relics in it, and a lot of those relics have some very nasty curses on them. See, there's this one I'm working on called the Casket of Ancient Winters, that if you opened, would basically cause a new ice age-"

The decoration Fred and George had been fiddling with came to life and started marching down the mantle, singing, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…" while making obscene gestures.

It was only that evening, as he was drifting off to sleep, that he realized his older brothers were trying to make him, no, all of them, forget about Ron for one day and have fun. (Which when it came to him, seemed to involve encouraging him to look into jobs where he could obsess overly much about details. His brothers perhaps knew him a little too well.) And the most terrifying part was that it worked.

* * *

Damp soaked into the knees of Neville's trousers as he knelt in the frost, trimming back the evergreen bushes on either side of the front stoop. Muggle plants, but no less beautiful for it.

The door creaked open, and he heard the clacking of Gran's cane on the stone. "Neville? Are you ready to visit your parents?"  
He stood, looking over his work with satisfaction. Gran's knees pained her sometimes, so she'd often been unable to keep up with the garden that'd been her pride and joy in her youth. Neville's care of it was the one thing she never criticized him for, though it'd be nice to hear she was outright proud. "I just need to change first."

She looked him up and down, frowning at his muddy clothes. " _Scourgify_ ," she said, and with a wave of her wand, his clothes were cleaned. "We'll Apparate."

"Yes, Gran," Neville said, taking her arm. She didn't turn and Apparate as he'd expected, though. "Gran?"

"You're being careful at that school of yours, Neville?" Gran had attended Beauxbatons, and thus always held a certain disdain for Hogwarts, mixed with the grudging admittance that Dumbledore 'was one of the best damn wizards of all time.' She'd told Neville once, though, that she'd seen his father's clumsiness growing up and known he'd be even more ridiculed at the French school, that she'd always known if he weren't a squib he'd best attend Hogwarts, and then, of course, it made sense for Neville to follow in his parents' footsteps.

He wondered if she regretted it, now. "Because of what happened at Halloween, Gran?"

"Because of what always happens at Hogwarts, Neville. Bravery and sacrifice are all well and good, but too many generations of this family have been damaged in war. Don't argue with me, boy." He hadn't even realized he'd been opening his mouth to protest. "Sheer luck kept you alive through the early years, unless you think you can defend yourself against basilisks or dementors."

Neville crossed his arms over his chest. "I can produce a corporeal patronus-"

"Because of lessons you remember from when you were fifteen," she said.

He looked away. "I know you supported the closing of the school during second year last time." He hadn't told anyone, besides Hannah Abbot, whose parents felt the same. He knew the average Gryffindor wouldn't understand.

Gran closed her eyes. "There is a difference between going to war when you're seventeen, and going to war when you're eleven or twelve. I will not face your parents and say their son has died before he could even make an informed choice about fighting."

"If you were going to pull me out of school, you would have after Halloween," said Neville. All his friends were at Hogwarts. He was doing better in Potions than ever before, and even inhaling less toxic fumes than at the beginning of the year. (Professor Snape had spoken to Morag and Sue's parents. There were remarkably fewer explosions from that corner, now, though Neville didn't know how long that would last.) He couldn't leave, not now.

"I would have," she agreed. "I know you, Neville. You fit in well in Hufflepuff, but you certainly weren't out of place in Gryffindor. You'd find another way to walk into danger. I need you to promise, though, that you'll be cautious."

Now that he'd faced You-Know-Who, even if it was only in a dream, Gran seemed much less scary. Instead of a terrifying specter with a vulture-capped hat, she seemed an old woman, worn from war and loss, worrying for her only grandson.

"I promise."

* * *

Hermione had to admit it was nice to have friends who could actually visit during holiday breaks, and spend time in her room without her father popping his head in every five minutes to 'see if anyone wanted anything.' (She'd insisted she had absolutely no interest in doing anything with Ron or Harry, but her father was ridiculously overprotective. At least he didn't remember that she eventually got together with Ron, though he did often ask Hermione why they'd just up and moved to Australia. She'd lied, of course.)

On the other hand, Padma Patil trying to figure out the internet was less amusing than annoying. "And you say this doesn't physically exist anywhere?"

"No, of course not-"

"It's squirreled away in that box," Sue said, pointing to the CPU. Hermione glared at her as she mouthed, "It's easier this way."

Padma nodded. "Oh, that makes sense." She glanced at Morag, who as far as Hermione knew was a pureblood but still had clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. "What are you laughing at?"

She blushed, glancing at Sue, who said, "We just never expected Hermione to have a pink plush unicorn on her bed."

It was Hermione's turn to stammer incoherently. "I got it when I was five! I didn't even know unicorns were real!"

"Why's it still on your bed, then?" Padma asked, and Hermione really had no answer for that. Judging by the other girl's smirk, she knew.

But she was Ravenclaw, she remembered, and she'd overheard enough conversations among the older students to know how to make something sound smart, even if it made no sense whatsoever. "Because it serves as a reminder to me, of the symbolic use of unicorns in popular culture as symbols of innocence, and the use of pink as both innocence and femininity. Society views females as innocent, which is why pink is considered a feminine characteristic, and why Morag is wearing a pink dress right now. Ergo, Morag is innocent." Morag, of course, blushed even brighter at that.

Sue clapped Hermione on the shoulders. "We'll make a Ravenclaw out of you yet. Did you make Krum give you an essay proving why he loved you before you said yes to the Yule Ball?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I wasn't that bad," she insisted. She had a quite satisfying argument with him first, though.

Padma mouthed, "They were," pointing at Sue and Morag, and Hermione had to stifle her smile at the thought. Of course, thoughts of romance quickly led to thoughts of Ron, and her mood soured. "Want to play a board game or something?" she asked hastily, because avoidance was working well enough so far.

Note to self: Never again play Scrabble with a group of Ravenclaws.


	11. Letters

JK Rowling's world, not mine.

The last chapter isn't really a response to your review, Semantics, mostly because I wrote the entirety of the first book before I started posting it and am actually working on the second right now xD. But I definitely agree that it was time for a little more cheeriness.

Sorry, mckertis. I'm trying not to stretch the idea too thin, to just show the logical consequences, but, well, I am only human.

* * *

To Oliver Wood,

You most likely do not know me, except from the dream world, and I do not know you personally. I have not progressed beyond local fame in Quidditch yet, after all. However, Harry Potter, whom I had the good fortune of competing alongside during the Triwizard Tournament in the world before, spoke highly of your skills at Quidditch.

Unfortunately, by the time I knew of you in that world, you were already playing for Puddlemere United, and it is bad form to solicit another team's players. However, this time around, it's not too late. When you graduate, if you want it, you will be a shoo-in for the Bulgarian keeper. (I understand Hogwarts is too far away for you to play for us before then, but we may attend some of your games to evaluate you. However, if you quit Hogwarts to play for us, our team would pay your fees for Durmstrang.) We believe you're skilled enough to make a valuable addition to our national team.

Think upon it. No need to respond immediately.

Sincerely, Viktor Krum

* * *

Severus,

I've noticed that my godson doesn't exactly agree with your cause. I don't like working with you. I don't like going against Harry. And I don't like many of the people we are now seeking to set free.

But children don't belong in the hellhole that is Azkaban, and you saved Remus's life.

So Severus, just know that I am on your side. I'm currently trying to figure out how I can best help. I have experience with being imprisoned without a trial, after all.

Sirius Black.

* * *

Dear Theodore,

How is Russia treating you? It must be dreadfully cold, must it not? Are you attending Durmstrang or are you being trained at home? I heard the Russian government is lenient when it comes to wizards' schooling.

Have you gotten any news of the Hogwarts area, as isolated as you are? Well, just in case you haven't, let me fill you in. There was this dreadful incident on Halloween where our few housemates who attended in our year were killed… by Death Eaters? Can you believe it? Because I can't. The Dark Lord's always been protective of Slytherins. I bet somebody is using his name as a cover-up to achieve his own ends. I wonder how long it will take before he breaks his followers out of Azkaban?

Have you heard from your father? Mother doesn't visit mine in Azkaban anymore. She says she gets enough jeers from the Wizarding public as it is.

It could have been us, too, if we'd been foolish enough to take the mark. Draco's in there, if you haven't got the news in Russia. I almost thought they'd take me, too, when they came for Father, for saying we should hand over Potter in the old world. Mother and I cried together in relief when we found out I was safe. But of course, Father is still gone.

But enough of dark and depressing talk! You should see Beauxbatons, Theodore, it is positively splendid. Everything and everyone are so beautiful here, except for Millicent, as always. (But don't tell her I said that.) And the teachers are so much smarter, in my opinion. I'm already learning to See in Divination. I haven't seen much, just the Hogwarts Astronomy tower crumbling, but they say if it's important, the vision will expand in time. I didn't actually tell them what it was, of course. They'd insist on panicking, when it's probably just a freak storm. In fact, it looked really cloudy and rainy when I saw the vision.

Still, though, I'm glad we stayed away from Hogwarts. It's definitely gone to the mudbloods and muggle-lovers.

Love, Pansy Parkinson

* * *

To parents and those who care about keeping our children safe,

I know the Prophet may not print this, representing as it does a rather unpopular opinion, but I have spoken with many other mothers and fathers, and they agree with me. Hogwarts isn't safe anymore.

I speak not only of the incidents in the dream world, where war came to Hogwarts, where my own son was killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This new world was a chance for Hogwarts to improve upon their safety protocols, and instead what happens? More students get killed. They were Slytherins, of course, no doubt infant Death Eaters in training making our school less safe finally turned on by those who spawned them, but those attacks could have just as easily killed our own children.

My son was injured in the attack, as was Percy Weasley, another good, Light boy. They could have just as easily died. I have also received information that a Hogwarts Professor was killed over the holiday break.

Now, Mr. Lockhart, who has brought these concerns to our attention, is of the opinion that Hogwarts should be given a chance to improve its security procedures before we close it. I say any action Hogwarts could take would be too little, too late, for children like Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis, whose fragile bodies, at least, are no different than those of our own children.

I am withdrawing my son immediately from Hogwarts. He will be schooled at home for the remainder of the year and then attend Beauxbatons next fall. Other mothers and fathers are doing the same.

I urge you to shut down the death trap that is Hogwarts. Safest place in the wizarding world? Well, then why do you continually put our children at risk?

Meredith Diggory and Mothers and Fathers Against Unsafe Schools

Note from the Prophet: Though Meredith Diggory claims that her letter represents a rather unpopular opinion, we have received many more letters arguing the same point. Unfortunately, we were not able to print them all due to limited space, but we will feature an article next week including key quotes from some of these letters.

* * *

Dear Bill,

I am dreadfully sorry it took me so long to write. I was so nervous. No one can give you advice for contacting your husband from a past life.

It is a long time until the TriWizard Tournament, and it may not ever occur now that our Headmistress and masters know of the tragedy that will occur. And I am still a child, and perhaps you have a girl even now, one that will please your family far more than I ever did. I wish to disabuse you of the notion that you owe me anything for the marriage vows we once shared. I do not wish to drag you down, to attach you to a mere child like myself. If you want to carve out a new life for yourself, one separate from mine, then you certainly should. Just don't reply to this letter. I'll get the message.

But I miss you, Bill. I miss your presence, your calm, assured sense of self. I miss your brilliant mind, the kind that could figure out how to break a complicated curse that was over a century old in under an hour. I miss your compassion, your bravery, your refusal to let what anyone else thought change you. If… Mother made it expressly clear to me that I may not travel to Britain until I am sixteen, and I must stay at Beauxbatons during the school year. But in the summer after my sixth year, if you are willing to see me, I will come. If you're willing to wait for me, Bill… write back. If not, I shall know to move on.

Love (If I may be so bold), Fleur

* * *

Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart, or he who currently touts himself as the savior of the wizarding world,

You are lauded as a hero. According to your novels, you never make mistakes. According to your novels, you can do no wrong.

I just have one question for you, Mr. Lockhart.

If you are so perfect, why couldn't you save my son?

Arabella Zabini


	12. Disintegration

**Not my universe. If it was I'd be as loaded as Rowling.**

 **Thanks for the reviews, LucidDreamer10! I didn't kill Ron off because I dislike him (he's rather a sweetie, if an idiotic one sometimes). It just seemed wrong for Percy to plop Pettigrew on the dining table and have nothing bad happen. I suppose I will blame their 'mini-adult' nature on the extra seven years :)**

* * *

Some days, Professor Severus Snape was quite relieved he wasn't the headmaster. Today was one of these days, as he watched the remaining students finish off their meal, happily chatting in ignorance of the announcement that was to come.

Once all of the students were finished with their meal, Headmaster Dumbledore stood to get their attention before they left. "I have a few key announcements to make."

That resulted in silence in the Great Hall very quickly, all attention turned towards the Headmaster. Perhaps they had read Meredith Diggory's letter in the Prophet, and the article from Lockhart criticizing the safety of the school. Severus certainly knew he had, over and over again, trying to figure out how badly his job was threatened. There weren't many people who would hire a reformed Death Eater.

"I promise Hogwarts has been doing everything possible in order to address the safety concerns mentioned in the Prophet," Dumbledore continued when he had the attention of the room. "Over the holidays, your teachers and I have worked on removing dangerous beasts and magics from the grounds, such as ensuring the staircases only move when asked. Of course, the Forbidden Forest is still off-limits." They'd asked Rubeus how feasible it would be to clear the spiders and centaurs out of the forest. He'd fixed them with a steely look and told them they'd be dead very quickly if they tried. Severus found Rubeus to be an imbecile, true, but one had to trust his word when he actually admitted magical creatures were dangerous, considering his tendency to underestimate them.

"We also killed the basilisk that was the cause of many petrifications in the old world," Dumbledore said, and a burst of excited chatter broke out. They hadn't told the Prophet yet, mostly because of the other piece of information that would have to be released with this one. But they had harvested the basilisk fang. Most of the horcruxes were now destroyed. (The diadem, the locket, the ring, and the diary. Dumbledore had gone to the Ministry, so he could confirm none of said Horcruxes had survived; otherwise Severus would worry, given their corrupting nature. They were still convincing the goblins to release the cup, and they weren't quite sure yet how to deal with the one in Harry or whether the snake even was one yet.) Dumbledore waited for the fervor to die down somewhat, before saying, in a quiet, somber tone that still somehow reached every ear in the room, "Unfortunately, during the attack, Head of Hufflepuff House, Professor Pomona Sprout, perished."

Shock. That was the only reaction from the students. Wide eyes, half-open mouths, startled gasps, even from the Hufflepuffs, who must have noticed that their Head of House wasn't at the head table and started wondering if there was something wrong. No one seemed to know what to say or how to react. Silly of them, really, given the student casualties so far. Did they think their teachers immune or uncaring? Even Severus had fought to not throw himself between the Carrows' Crucios and Hufflepuff first years in the final year of the old world, not that he'd admit it if asked.

Only Potter didn't look surprised- it seemed he hadn't told his friends yet. Pity. His ability to trust others' strength when his own was lacking was his only positive characteristic.

It was, not surprisingly, a Hufflepuff who broke the spell by weeping, his breath hitching but thankfully not degrading to full on blubbering. Longbottom, who had been doing much better in Severus's classes since becoming a Hufflepuff, was quickly joined in his mourning by the remainder of his table, some crying as well, as the Prefects looked to Dumbledore with suspiciously dry eyes and expressions that said they were being strong for the rest of their house.

Dumbledore continued, still in that somber tone, "Professor Trelawney will serve as head of Hufflepuff House until a suitable replacement can be found." That had been a hard decision- none of the teachers except Pomona had been Hufflepuffs in their youth, so they'd eventually decided to give the position to the Ravenclaw divination teacher for now. "We are also currently searching for a new Herbology professor. Until we find one, that class is cancelled." He closed his eyes, the strongest sign of mourning he would allow himself to show to the students. "Prefects, please help your housemates back to their dormitories. Classes are cancelled tomorrow, to allow all time to grieve."

The hall cleared out fairly quickly after that, as students hurried to their common rooms to discuss the news. Severus was no fool. He knew the owls would be making their way to their parents the moment curfew ended the next morning. But Albus had sent the press release to the Prophet just before the meal, ensuing their side of the story would reach them first. Controlling the damage. Hogwarts had too much negative publicity of late.

Filius stopped him and Minerva at the door. "Can we talk in private?" he said, brow furrowed in worry. They walked to an abandoned classroom- Hogwarts had far too many of them, reflecting more prosperous days. There, Filius affixed them with a level gaze and said, "I think we need to shelve the Slytherin prisoner case."

"What?" Severus exclaimed. "But- what- those are children in there, Filius," he said, certain he sounded ridiculous. He'd expected to have to get them out on his own, yes, in the beginning of the year, but he'd grown accustomed to the hours of pouring over legalese with Minerva and Filius. He'd grown accustomed to having other people invested in his students' futures. He'd grown accustomed to, for once, not being told he was unreasonable.

At the same time, Minerva said, "We've made so much progress, Filius. If we can get Sirius to speak on their behalf, we might have a hearing for them by Easter."

"By Easter there might be no more Hogwarts!" Filius snapped, and the two quieted. "Cedric Diggory isn't the only one who hasn't come back. I lost four Ravenclaws over the break, and I wouldn't be surprised if both of you lost students, too." Severus frowned. He'd been too preoccupied during the meal to notice, and even before the break, his house had been reduced to perhaps thirty students total. He couldn't afford to lose more. "If they close Hogwarts… Who listens to discredited, out of work teachers?" Filius glanced at Severus, gaze softer now, and the Potions Master didn't need Legilimency to know what he was thinking. People were even less likely to listen to discredited, out of work former Death Eaters, no matter that they'd been a double agent.

"But what about the students?" Severus asked. "The longer they spend in Azkaban, the worse it will be for their sanity." His students who'd been imprisoned were among his less balanced, too; while one might join up in a murderous cult in a fit of teenage bravado and rebellion, it was far less likely to happen with a stable home life (Severus didn't count murderous parents as a stable home life, no matter how they treated their offspring), a family history of neurotypicality, and an exposure to ideas outside of said murderous cult.  
Minerva grimaced. "Both of you are right. Our students are going insane in Azkaban, but… Hogwarts was to be a supporting argument. If Hogwarts will take care of them besides for the summers, the Ministry doesn't have to pay to put all of the children in orphanages, and they certainly won't pay to send them to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang. The Ministry likes to do as little work as possible, unfortunately." So if Hogwarts closed, there'd be the question of what to do with the children, but… "And Death Eater children will only give those arguing their own children aren't safe here even more ammunition. If Hogwarts closes… Those not imprisoned go home, and Voldemort's followers are back and have shown they're not afraid to kill children."

Severus could see her point, but those were his students in a prison which still hadn't done anything about the Dementors. "So you're saying I should stop fighting and let these children stay in prison and go mad."

Filius shook his head, perching on the edge of a desk, his expression grim. "I'm saying we need to shift priorities. We need to work on making Hogwarts safer, so that once we get those children out, they have someplace to go. We need to give Hogwarts its good name back, so that our arguments have more weight behind them. I'm saying we need to save the students still here before we can save those taken from us."

"I don't like this, but-"

"But-?" Minerva prompted, when he'd stayed silent far too long.

Severus sighed. "But I think it's the only chance we have, and we can't let anyone else die." He just hoped his students could survive the wait. "We'll revisit this issue next fall?"

* * *

Harry met Hermione in the Great Hall after breakfast the next day, and they decided to go visit Hagrid together. "Have you seen Neville?" he asked.

"He came down for breakfast briefly," Hermione said distantly. "The Hufflepuff prefects made their housemates come and eat something. He said to tell you that the plant he gave you for Christmas, that he forgot to label, is dittany. It's for healing."

"Oh." Harry had forgotten to get Neville a present. It seemed like a small thing now, since Professor Sprout was gone, but he still felt guilty. "I was there, you know."

"There for what?" she asked, walking alongside him out onto the snowy grounds.

"Professor Sprout." Her silence pushed him to explain. "They needed me to open and close the Chamber of Secrets, since it wasn't like any of them were parseltongues. Lupin and Dumbledore and all of the heads were there. Lupin got hurt, and so did Sprout, but Lupin was okay. Sprout was poisoned by the basilisk and… and Fawkes wouldn't cry for her."

"Fawkes wouldn't-" Hermione grimaced. "That can't be right. He healed you last time around." He couldn't understand why the bird hadn't cried, either. Had it just somehow decided he was more worth saving? It was so unfair.

"Sirius says I was just very lucky the first time around," Harry said, kicking at the snow. "Course, he also said the Death Eaters shouldn't have gone to Azkaban, so I think he's a little crazy. Can we talk about something else?"  
"Like what?" Hermione asked. "We don't have any schoolwork yet."

"Quidditch?" Harry suggested. Quidditch always cheered him up. "The Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff game this fall was really good. Nearly a tie." He knew Hermione and Neville weren't big fans of the sport, but it seemed the only cheerful thing at Hogwarts nowadays.

Hermione smiled at that comment, but then the smile abruptly switched to a frown. "Aren't the Slytherin-Ravenclaw and Gryffindor-Hufflepuff games coming up next?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Remember, that was the one where I caught the snitch in the first five minutes the first time around?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, but… I don't know if the Slytherins will even play their game, and even if they do, all of their good players are, well..." She paused delicately, though really, why she felt the need to dance so around the subject of the shrinking Slytherin house he didn't understand. "So my house's team is sure to win. And then Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff… Who knows what will happen there? Maybe the Hufflepuffs will take a leaf out of Slytherin's book and boycott the game?" He couldn't blame them if they did. He wondered what his team would have done if McGonagall died. Just the thought hurt.

Harry pulled his coat tighter about him as the wind picked up. "I hope not. We need a good Quidditch game to bring our spirits up, and you're right in that Slytherin versus Ravenclaw won't give us that. We need a Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match. Our teams will actually work for it. But that's still some months off."

She was silent for a long moment. "We were so much happier back when you could talk Quidditch with Ron, weren't we?"

He smiled bitterly. "Well, the Quidditch matches were better then, too." By then, they'd reached Hagrid's hut.

The door opened before either of them even touched it, and Percy Weasley stepped out. He blinked owlishly at them. "Oh, don't mind me. I was just leaving."

When he was far enough away that he couldn't hear them, Hermione turned to Harry and asked, "Why would Percy be visiting Hagrid?" Harry shrugged and entered the hut, his glasses fogging up almost immediately.

* * *

Most Ravenclaws mourned by diving headfirst into work to avoid thinking about their losses. Hermione was no exception. Currently, she was puzzling over yet another legal textbook in her attempt to free the house elves.

Sue Li perched herself on the arm of Hermione's chair, stretching her arm along the back. "What are you working on?"

"You know, Sue, just because Morag lets you drape yourself all over her doesn't mean everyone else wants the same treatment," Hermione said irritably, slamming the book shut. "House elf rights. Can't get the Ministry to budge on the captured elves from the Death Eaters, and Harry's the only person helping me."

Sue shrugged. "I'd help, but-"

"-But house elves don't want to be free, I know. Haven't you ever thought they might be forced into thinking like that by their magic? It's not like it hurts anyone for them to be free. I swear, people here-"

"Actually, I was going to say I already had a cause," she said mildly. "I'm muggleborn. I don't have anything invested in house elves."

Hermione deflated. "Oh. Sorry. It's just, I'm used to people saying freeing the elves is useless."

The other girl waved a hand dismissively in an apology. "If you really want to help them, you should focus less on the old books the library has. Some of the early work of the Ministry's best Unspeakables is in the files in the common room. There's bound to be some information on the psychology of house elves."

"Really?" Hermione asked, glancing at the wooden drawers against one wall. She'd never had time to look in them. Obviously that was a mistake. "What research do you use for your cause? If you don't mind me asking."

Sue withdrew a sheath of papers from one drawer. "Magical inheritance. It's surprisingly good for arguing squib and muggle rights once you get past the pureblood rhetoric in the beginning." She passed the pile to Hermione. "No one should get their rights taken away based on sheer luck."

Some of the parchment on top was so old it almost crumbled to the touch, and she hardly dared even breathe near it. What was this? She skimmed the parchments. The oldest looked like essays arguing the superiority of pureblood wizards, and she gritted her teeth. _It is clear that far less muggle children become wizards proportional to wizard children becoming wizards…_ "I see what you mean about pureblood supremacy rhetoric."

"The newer stuff is better."

Hermione flipped through the remainder of the pile. It contained quite a few dated family trees, sometimes two for the same family a good hundred years apart. At the end, she found an essay from Morag, a short one by Hermione's standards, only a couple of pages. _… already proposed the possibility of multi-gene inheritance of magical ability, as if one single gene determines ability, then a dominant gene for magic leaves no possibility of muggleborns and a recessive gene for magic leaves no possibility for squibs. One potential explanation, assuming a recessive magic gene, is a recessive magic suppression gene. This gene would only be noticed in squibs from pureblood families; in halfblood and muggleborn witches and wizards and muggles the gene would never be observed as the assumption would be the squib in disguise simply did not have the magical ability gene. This suppression gene could therefore hide in families for generations…_

She glanced up at Sue. "Is this also Morag's cause, then?"

The Asian girl blew a strand of hair out of her face cheerfully. "Her brother is nearly finished with his doctorate in genetics. He's not a bad source."

"I thought most wizards didn't get degrees, or any muggle education, really?" Her parents hadn't been real happy about that, given their own level of education.

"Coinneach is a squib. Nobody wants to be Filch, you know."

Hermione winced, but felt the need to say anyway, "Or a house elf." Sue raised an eyebrow, and Hermione smiled. "I had to try. Sign my petition and I'll sign yours?"


	13. Spring

Not my universe.

* * *

Cedric's mother didn't know he kept up on the news, even now. He arranged to meet the Prophet owl on his daily flights. Not even his overprotective mother could deny him Quidditch. Well, he said overprotective, but he had, after all, died in the old world.

The newest big news item was, of all things, Quidditch. Apparently the Slytherin team arrived at the Quidditch field for their match against Ravenclaw in Hufflepuff colors, in memory of Professor Sprout. They lost horribly, of course. Cedric remembered when their team had been the best, an unbeatable juggernaut, but now half their players could barely stay astride their brooms. Ravenclaw beat them by three hundred points. He supposed it was their comeuppance, for half their house being racist.

In the next match, Hufflepuff bedecked their players in green. 'Course the Prophet spun it as the Hufflepuffs being tempted by the evil Slytherins, but Cedric was proud of his house anyway.

The only other Hogwarts-centric article was a short blurb explaining another four students had been pulled out of the school last month.

He had a couple of other letters, too. Mother didn't try to keep him from writing to his classmates, which he supposed she should if she really feared the news upsetting him. Cho had written him. because they'd decided their reaction to their dating future would be to be friends now at fourteen. Of course, Cho was a born prefect- a major part of her update was about class.

 _Lupin's course is now the only Defense course in name only. We carry bezoars with us now, because Snape warned everyone it's the only universal poison antidote. And charms now has a protective slant. McGonagall's teaching us how to transfigure weapons into something less offensive, and vice versa. I dearly hope this won't backfire on us with battles in the corridors._

 _What is your mother teaching you, anyway? Do you think it's up to par with here? I'll send you my textbook list next fall, if you'd like, if she doesn't let you return to Hogwarts before then._

Cedric didn't think she would. They argued over Hogwarts near-daily. He wanted to be there, not here, but she'd held his dead body once and vowed to never again.

Once, he'd asked her what would prevent Death Eaters from coming to their home. She'd said, a fierce glow in her eyes, "My wand." He hadn't argued.

...

Harry had what his friends liked to call a 'saving people thing.' Of course, he still judged, like any other human being, but if he judged someone worthy he would give his life for their cause.

Or in the case of the House Elves, write yet another entreaty to the Ministry. But on the other hand, eleven-year-old boys are far more willing than adults to admit their impatience. He accidently knocked his inkwell over and glared as the black mess obliviated his letter, slamming his quill to the table. "It's not working!" he hissed.

Hermione looked up from the other side of the table. "Maybe we need to start smaller. Start up S.P.E.W. again."  
Harry grimaced. "Hermione, you're a genius, but that acronym was horrible." She opened her mouth to argue, but he didn't let her get a word in edgewise. "You literally named your organization after sick. And it was too small. It didn't get anywhere. Look, Lockhart endorsed us, and while we know he's a fraud, there's a lot of people who follow his every word. What more can we do?"  
She shook her head in frustration. "We need more supporters. I don't even think Neville's grandmother has released hers yet. 'Course, nobody listens to a couple Hogwarts kids."

Harry stared at the puddle of ink as it came to him. "Hermione, you're a genius. What if we ask the Headmaster to free the school's elves?"

"He wouldn't last time," she pointed out. "He thought they were happier this way."

Harry rose, pacing back and forth. "But Hogwarts was in a different place last time. Right now, half the Wizarding world is against it. What better way to draw people's attention in a good way than to free house elves like the Boy Who Lived and Gilderoy Lockhart suggested, in a grand gesture that gets a lot of people's attention?"

Hermione frowned. "I want Hogwarts to free them too, Harry, but I'm not sure if that argument works when you consider that the Purebloods would be against house elf freedom in general. Dumbledore won't go for it if it hurts the school more than it helps."

"But most of the purebloods who are the most close minded are in Azkaban or left the country," Harry pointed out. "We need to convince people like Neville's grandmother, not people like Lucius Malfoy."

Hermione still looked doubtful, but she didn't have time to argue as Madame Pince scurried over. "You are simply being far too loud- is that puddle of ink quivering near my books?" There was a good half-meter between Harry's end of the table with the spilled ink and Hermione's end with the books, but still she scowled. "If I find one drop-"

"We'll just be leaving now, won't we, Harry?" Hermione said hurriedly. She muttered a quick Scourgify towards the puddle, and smiled beatifically at Madame Pince, though Harry's letter was unsalvageable.

...

Percy and Hagrid located Norberta midway through April. It was an uneventful affair on Percy's end, really- all he did was contact Charlie with the information and ask if he could come along. The response was, semi-predictably, that "Mum would kill him if he were the cause of Percy getting hurt for the second time that year." At the end of the letter, Charlie added a "Take care, Perce, and think about my offer from Christmas, since I don't think you're going Minestry again."

He wondered if they knew he knew that they all tiptoed about him like he was broken glass. Fred and George still hadn't pranked him once this year, which is extra worrying since they didn't seem to have pranked anyone. Oliver enquired about his health daily, and really, though he could appreciate his roommate's concern, it's not like he ever cared so much before, though he supposed given how Quidditch was going the boy couldn't talk about that as much as he normally did. Even Ron's portrait asked sometimes how he's doing, in between Dean and Seamus teaching it magic. (Ron was very proud of having learned Wingardium Leviosa, even though he could only levitate objects within his portrait.)

And he ran into Penelope the other day- or, as he suspected, Penelope sought him out. The resulting exchange had been ever so stiff. "Percy. How are you?"

"Fine." Even if his brothers didn't agree with that statement, but he saw no need to burden her with his problems. "You?"  
"Yes." She looked away, shuffling her feet. "I found someone. Like you told me to. That day on the train."

"Good." At least she was happy.

"So, well, I suppose this is goodbye. I have to get to class."  
"Goodbye, Penelope." A few days later, he saw her at the Gryffindor table at breakfast holding hands with Oliver. Well, that explained a few things.

Yes, Percy knew why people kept asking him if he was okay. He didn't care about much anymore, after all.

"I'm not joining the Ministry again," he told McGonagall during his consult on his future before she even had the chance to open her mouth. The Ministry tore his family apart once. He could learn from the dream, after all.

"I wasn't going to necessarily suggest that, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said. Her lips twitched, as though she were fighting a grin. To be fair, it might of been the first time he displayed real emotion in front of her for months, he thought. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her cluttered desk. "What do you want to do with your future? You're a bright young man, after all."

Charlie sent him a picture in the mail of Norberta playing in the sanctuary. He smiled before he realized what he was doing.

Maybe he would consider Charlie's offer. He could take a Care of Magical Creatures speed-course over the summer if he wanted to take Newt-levels in it. It wouldn't be forgetting Ron. It'd just be learning to live again.

...

Albus Dumbledore had lost his entire family, long ago, and to be honest, his physical property held little interest to him. His sole remaining reasons to stay in this world instead of embarking on the next great adventure were Fawkes and Hogwarts.

To keep Hogwarts alive, he needed to attach something positive to the school name again, and the best way to do so was to free the elves, given killing the basilisk had not provided nearly as much positive press as they'd needed.

So he called Marcus Weasley, a Prophet reporter and a student of his, at one point, to Hogwarts. (He was a cousin of the current generation of Weasleys.) A good boy, if a trifle sensationalist in his news reporters. He told his students and teachers and let them gather in the Great Hall to bear witness.

He apologized silently to Severus, that he was furthering a cause other than that of his imprisoned students, but if said students had nowhere to go, then they'd never free them anyway.

Marcus said, grinning, "Do you all understand how amazing this is? It's historic, really. Individuals have freed their house elves through the years, and entire households once or twice, but never an institution of such size and grandeur! Headmaster Dumbledore, what made you decide to make such a benevolent gesture?

The elderly wizard glanced at Harry and winked one bright blue eye before saying, "I have always been for the equality of magical creatures with ourselves, but the constant protests of the house elves made us all believe they didn't want to be freed." One of the house-elves, upon hearing that, clutched Dumbledore's robe and nodded vigorously. "However, Dobby's story from the old world has shown us all that any house elf might desire freedom." The gray-skinned elf began shaking its head just as vigorously as it'd been nodding earlier, but Dumbledore smiled benevolently at it, and said calmly, "Of course, any elf who wishes to continue their employment here is welcome to. Students still need to eat, no?"

The house elf didn't look very reassured by this, but Marcus nodded. "Of course, of course. Wouldn't want to turn them out into the world with nowhere to go."

Many of the elves wept as Dumbledore ceremoniously handed each of them a sock, of varied designs, and a few outright begged him not to. The Prophet writer took note of all this, a disquieted frown on his lips. "What do you think about all this?" he asked one of the newly freed elves.

The elf, a pot bellied female with curly, dark hair, glared at him. "I be thinking you are a bad man who wants to make this school look bad and that I be getting back to my job," she said, flouncing off to check the bread in the oven.

Marcus stood there, mouth half-open. Well, of course. A good lad, but he'd written some of the harsher articles about Hogwarts recently, and the elves read the Prophet too.


	14. Growing

**Not my universe. Thanks for the lovely reviews and PMs, everyone!**

* * *

"And now?" Rita whispered, sitting by the brook with her eyes closed. She'd found it didn't help her actually hear the Dark Lord any better, but it made her feel less like she was talking to her own head. "Lockhart has driven them to the point where they have no choice. Soon, he'll rally his side of the war. But what do I do, while he drives the wizards into even more of a frenzy?"

He chuckled. _Frenzy. I like the sound of that. We recruit on our side, as Lockhart's followers alienate them further and further. Did you see the article that said the children killed at Halloween deserved to die?_

Despite how guilty that article had made her feel, she had to point out the obvious. "You're occupying my head right now. How exactly would you have seen the article without me seeing it?"

 _... Never you mind._ Before she could point out exactly how suspicious that sounded, he asked hurriedly, _So, don't you want to know how we're planning to recruit_?

Rita reminded herself it would be a bad idea to snark at the former scourge of wizarding Britain, no matter how dependent on her he currently was. At the very least, it might keep her from her story. Yes, she had to consider exactly how exclusive the information she was getting was. "I assume Lockhart's going to make some people angry, no? We'll snap up the ones who reject his movement." Really, it was so obvious, which was why the Ministry would never see it coming.

 _Oh, he'll make more than just some people angry. Divide and conquer, my dear, and what world is more divided than ours?_

"Muggle politics. We don't even have parties," she said promptly. He needed to associate with more Muggleborns, if he didn't know that.

A pause. _That was a rhetorical question. And I throw the best parties, unless Muggles torture people at theirs?_

Rita stared at the sparkling water and wished wizarding Britain had a non-Azkaban prison. Maybe if it hadn't meant Dementors, she would have accepted the penalty for being an unregistered Animagi. A story wasn't worth this, but at the core of everything, Rita liked being sane, so she told the murderer she was helping to power, "A different kind of party, and only if they're very drunk."

* * *

The prefect fixed them with a hard stare worthy of a Slytherin, though Neville doubted Mary would be proud of the comparison. Then again, she was on the quidditch team... "Now, you are not to work in any of the other greenhouses. You already listened to Javier's speech about how seventy percent of the contents of this room can kill you?" They nodded. "Let's just say the percentage goes up from there. The older students will tend the other greenhouses. Follow the instructions precisely, and maybe Javier won't have to stay with you next time."

The Spanish boy, a sixth-year, grinned as Mary swept past him. "Good luck fertilizing the carnivorous tumbleweeds and the fanged geranium," he said, and Mary rolled her eyes.

Neville and his yearmates started on the mostly-muggle plants of the first year greenhouse. (He rather thought the older students were exaggerating about how many things could kill them- only the most out of touch pureblood would believe dill strangled people. Then again, Javier was an out of touch pureblood.) The Hufflepuffs would not let Pomona's pride and joy die. Hagrid helped the oldest students with the worst of the greenhouses, but there was far too much to do for any one man, especially one who also had duties in the forbidden forest.

Susan watered the basil besides him. "My aunt resigned from the Wizengamot," she said, out of the blue.

Neville nearly dropped his pruning shears. "Why? She was one of the most fair people there."

"She said she couldn't stand to see children imprisoned anymore. She's been fighting for the Slytherins since the beginning of the year, you know." She grinned. "Imagine, those pureblood supremacists knowing a muggleborn is one of their staunchest supporters."

Neville tried to imagine it, as he carefully trimmed the twisted bonsai tree by the door, and laughed. "But why did she give up now?" he asked.

She frowned at a green and white ivy. "This one needs to be repotted. And my Aunt Amelia is a Hufflepuff. She's no good at Herbology or DADA, not good enough, anyway, but she understands History of Magic better than that ghost ever did, and Dumbledore's agreed to fire Binns if she'll come be the Hufflepuff Head next year. She might still be able to fight for them from here, anyway- I doubt Snape is all too happy about losing most of his students."

"I hated them, you know. Not a very Hufflepuff attitude, but-"

Susan snorted. "We're not all saints, Neville, for all that we seem to have a picture of one in every bedroom. Everyone hated them. But that's not the point."

"I know it's not. It's unfair for them to be imprisoned without a trial and they might never commit the crimes they're accused of. I do think sometimes, Susan." A tapping on the clear greenhouse roof brought his gaze upward, to where his Gran's oversized gray owl hovered. (Professor Sprout had once waxed poetic on the spells some genius invented for wizarding glass so birds could see it and not crash- something about glowing in a range invisible to the human eye.) "I should get that. I wrote her asking her to free Botty, her house elf."

Susan grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Neville. You know the free the house elves campaign is working directly against the free the Slytherins campaign, right?"

"How?"

"It's a bit of legalese my Aunt is particularly pissed about." She scowled. "Basically, the free the house elf campaign relies upon future knowledge being true and legally admissible evidence. The free the Slytherins campaign calls for the exact opposite. If one is proved, the other…" She shrugged.

"Oh." He glanced up at the owl, who glared at him furiously. "I still need to answer that, though." She watched him leave.

The moment Neville escaped the greenhouse, he outstretched his arm, his heart hammering in his chest. The owl landed on his arm with a heavy thump, allowing him the removed the letter before taking off for the Owlery or a brief rest before flying home. He unfolded the letter with shaking hands. A line towards the bottom caught his eye.

 _I freed Botty._

Neville didn't know whether to cheer or cry.

* * *

Remus sorted through the few belongings cluttering his office, tucking them into his suitcase. As far as they knew, the Defense Against the Dark Arts curse was still in effect, and no one wanted to risk him staying to test that.

Sirius had insisted he move into Grimmauld Place, pointing out rather gruffly that he wasn't going to let his best friend sleep under bridges when he had a perfectly functional house. Remus appreciated it. It was hard as a werewolf to get a job in the wizarding world, and even harder as a Hogwarts graduate to get a job in the muggle one. He couldn't make money to take classes for GCSEs or A-levels, because a job to make said money required GCSEs or A-levels. With Sirius covering his food and rent, maybe he'd be able to actually get some Muggle education. One could dream, right?

The few dollars he was able to make usually went towards the exorbitantly expensive Wolfsbane potion. He paused before packing his one remaining bottle. It didn't store well, but Severus had told him gruffly to let him know when he needed more. They'd reached an odd amicability.

Which was why Remus hadn't told anyone about the letter he'd received from Juliet Weasley (another of the infinite cousins, and one who, when she was eight, happened to play in the wrong woods on the night of the full moon). _Do you see what potential this affords us? If the Ministry protects house elves…_

Then perhaps they would end discrimination against werewolves. He wished he hadn't received the letter. He hadn't thought of it before Juliet wrote him.

Now he had a choice to make. His own rights, or those of the children of Azkaban. He was perhaps a little disappointed in himself that it wasn't easier to make what he thought was likely the right choice. Of course, parents knew he was a werewolf this time around, and they hadn't ordered his removal from Hogwarts, but in all fairness, there were plenty of other problems over the course of the year for them to be outraged about. They probably would have gotten to it eventually.

On the other hand, he and the other werewolves would have other chances. The children of Azkaban had only one childhood to lose.

He sighed, dropping his head into his hands. Knowing the future was supposed to make things simpler.

* * *

Albus sipped at his tea. Not that his hosts had offered him any, but a Summoning charm from a wizard as powerful as him went a long way, and he was quite sure a Galleon was enough to pay for it. "So you see, Harry will have to spend a couple weeks with you this summer, but after that he'll stay with his parents' friends."

Vernon Dursley steepled his fingers, which was better than the nervous drumming that had previously occupied them. "This would be the ex-convict, yes?"

"And the werewolf," Petunia snapped. She glared at Dumbledore. "I did listen to some of my sister's stories. A closeted homosexual," Dumbledore very carefully did not choke on his tea, though it was a near thing, "-and a no good prankster. They're welcome to the boy, but they're not to visit him while Dudders is home."

Dudley popped into the room, hoping his name meant presents. "What's a closeted homosexual, Mum?"

"Never you mind," she told him, and he left the room sulkily.

"I know the buggers will insist on checking up on the boy," Vernon said.

"Given how you've treated him in the past, yes." Dumbledore would have given anything to have family again, even if they were like the Dursleys, and he could not understand in the least how they could mistreat a relative so; if he'd known, he would have checked on Harry far more frequently. Sometimes he wished the dream started earlier.

Petunia said, "They can come between nine and twelve weekdays." She raised her voice, to make it clear to any listening boys. "Dudders is so smart Smeltings wants to give him extra schooling."

Dumbledore didn't argue. Sometimes children needed to be lied to. "Well, since we've reached an agreement-"

"Wait," said Petunia. Her face was drawn, afraid. "Is He still coming back?" The capitalization was audible. "I can tell when time repeats, though Vernon refuses to take advantage of the stocks."

She glared at her husband, who fidgeted uncomfortably. "Prophetic dreams are unnatural," he muttered. "The devil's work begets the devil's money."

Vernon Dursley was even more close-minded than his wife, Dumbledore noted. His wife, who was afraid, for herself, for her husband, for her son, just like any wizarding family. His wife, who Albus had foisted a child off on without ever really considering that maybe she didn't want her estranged sister's baby. His wife, who hadn't raised Harry as her own as Albus had hoped, but who also hadn't mistreated Harry nearly as badly as was possible in a world as twisted as the one they lived it. None of that excused her, just as none of Voldemort's life excused him, but Albus was all too aware of how easily he himself could have gone down a dark path.

He was no angel, so he looked Petunia in the eye as he said, "We're trying to stop him, but we don't know we'll succeed."


	15. Summer

This is the last chapter of the first book. Thanks, everyone who's reading, and this will go on a brief hiatus while I finish the next book, This Wondrous Hope, so I can keep up my one chapter a week schedule.

Totally do not own. Otherwise I'd want to be paid for this :)

* * *

Moody wanted a drink. They'd been up in this blasted nether region of nowhere for months now, stumbling through snowy woods that melted into a attractive spring, he supposed, if he were into mud and rain and pollen aggravating his allergies, anyway. Of course the alcohol had run out long ago, and the swill the nearest villages drank wasn't nearly strong enough for his tastes.

He was starting to think that beetle might have been more significant than anyone originally thought. Of course, the others would just call him a suspicious bastard- they thought perhaps that some of the dark, but never Death Eater simply because they were too fiercely independent, witches and wizards once of Slytherin House might have brought You-Know-Who back.

Moody had nothing against being suspicious of Slytherins. Hell, Slytherins were suspicious of Slytherins, at least if they had any intelligence at all. The problem was his Aurors were too damn stupid to be suspicious of every other house, too.

Course, they'd say he was paranoid if he brought that up.

So they searched, until the owl came.

 _Auror Moody,_

 _Officially, you're all recalled. You're also demoted for failing to find the genocidal maniac. Unofficially, I'm rather proud of you for sticking it out when it became obvious You-Know-Who was gone instead of raring off on your own like the Order of the Phoenix bastard you are._

 _Rufus Scrimgeour, Head Auror_

* * *

Sirius whirled, wand out, as the crack of Apparition sounded behind him, yelping, "Stupefy!"

Remus collapsed to the ground, his face frozen in surprise, his trunks landing next to him with a heavy thump, scraping up the wooden floors of Sirius's sitting room in Number 4 Grimmauld Place. Sirius stared at his fallen friend. Crap.

"Ennervate," he said sheepishly, and Remus stumbled to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest and giving his friend a pointed look. Sirius winced. "Sorry."

"I thought you said you got better?" He levitated his trunks towards the staircase.

Sirius looked away. "I have, it's just, you startled me." He seemed very easy to startle, lately. "You want any help with that?" He scowled as the painting upstairs started shrieking again. "Still haven't figured out how to shut her up."

"Sirius, I've been able to levitate a trunk for years, now." His lips tightened into a thin line. "You do realize we agreed to take Harry for the summer after the first couple weeks, right?"

Oh. He hadn't really thought about that too well, had he? He wanted to spend time with his godson, yes, but he couldn't hurt Harry. He sat down on the bottom carpeted step, resting his head in his hands. "I know. We're both lucky I only Stupefied you. But Harry needs somewhere to go."

Taking a seat besides him, Remus said, "And I don't exactly have the money for it, and he's not friends with the Weasleys in this timeline. But it's not great for him to be in a place where if he startles you, you'll try to curse him."

"I know."

Remus sighed, massaging his temples. "Have you tried the healers? Maybe they could help. It's not wrong to admit Azkaban damaged you, you know."

"The Healers are shit at this kind of stuff. Turns out chocolate doesn't help against memories of dementors." Sirius laid his head back against the steps. "'I see nothing to treat here, Mr. Black,'" he quoted, rolling his eyes.

"What about muggle healers? They have some devoted specifically to the healing of the mind."

Sirius snorted. "Oh, yes. I'll just tell the muggle healers all about how I'm having nightmares about my prison guards who literally sucked the joy out of my life and about the fellow inmates being sociopaths…" he trailed off, smiling. It sounded more like exaggeration than anything else. "You know what? That might actually work better than I thought."

Remus smiled back at him. "There will be other summers," he said. "We do need to help Harry figure out where he'll be staying, though, once he leaves the Dursleys."

"I think I have a plan for that," Sirius said, poking his best friend in the ribs. "I have all that money sitting around. I think I would have inherited the Malfoys' money through Narcissa, too, if the Ministry hadn't confiscated it all, so I could always petition for some of that if I wanted." He paused, thinking about that. "Nah, it probably should have all gone to Andromeda as a closer relation. But either way, I'm not running out of money anytime soon, and what better use for it than to see for the comfort of my best friend and godson over the summer?"

Frowning, Remus said, "I can't accept charity-"

Sirius laughed. "Think of it as a stewardship, or as bribery for letting me visit all the time, if that helps. Look, I can't take care of him, Hermione's parents are muggles, and I wouldn't wish Augusta Longbottom upon any child. Lovely woman, but I have a feeling she treats Neville like McGonagall treats her students. Absolutely fairly, but not all that affectionately."

"Well, if you insist-"

Leaping to his feet, Sirius said, "Great! Now, let's go apartment hunting and muggle mind healer hunting!" Surely there must be a shorter way to say that.

* * *

Harry stayed with his table, and his friends with their own, for the final feast. The House Cup would be announced, after all, despite everything that happened that year. They knew it would be one of their houses winning. Even with the professors being extra generous to Slytherin as of late, the snakes didn't have enough members to keep up with the other houses.

He had to think about the House cup. If he did he didn't have to worry about Hogwarts closing.

The Prophet wouldn't shut up about it. He'd realized, while arguing with Hermione, that while Cedric Diggory had died in fourth year last time around, no one had actually died on school grounds since Myrtle's day until Dumbledore in sixth year. This time around… The Patil twins were pulled out last week. He heard the whispers in the halls, saying that if Hogwarts wasn't safe, nowhere was. Attitudes towards the school had taken a slight upswing after the freeing of the house-elves, but it wasn't enough.

So perhaps he wasn't in the most receptive mood when Oliver Wood plopped down next to him and said, "I just thought you should know, since you'll probably be part of the team next year-"  
Harry rested his head on the table. "Don't tell me that you're leaving, too." So their Quidditch team could be as crippled as the Slytherin one was.

"I'm going to to play Quidditch for Bulgaria on Viktor Krum's team," he snapped. "I need to transfer to Durmstrang if I am to do it before I graduate. Don't sound so happy for me, will you?"

"Sorry," Harry muttered. He forced a smile. "That's great for you, Wood, really." Wood still looked doubting. "Look. It's just- everyone's leaving. Will there even be a Hogwarts next year?"

Oliver smiled at him. "You know Dumbledore will see to it that there is. He loves this school, Harry."

"I'm not sure how much he can do." He glanced up at the ancient wizard, who showed no sign of the worry present in the other teachers' expressions, but before either he or Oliver could say anything more, the Headmaster rose and the Great Hall hushed.

"I know this has been a difficult year for every person sitting in these halls, and for many more who've left us. I hope you've managed to learn something despite our troubles. Before we award the cup, I ask a moment of silent remembrance, for Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass,, Ronald Weasley, Blaise Zabini, and Pomona Sprout."

He bowed his head. Harry thought he heard muffled sobs from the Hufflepuff table, a hitch in Fred Weasley's breath, even perhaps crying from the Slytherins, though he knew they'd be perfectly composed once they looked back up. "I also ask that we keep those of every House alive but not here with us today in mind in the days coming forward," Dumbledore said, softly. "That said, we do, after all, have a house cup to award."

"In fourth place is Slytherin, with 736 points." He smiled grimly at the house, who didn't really react. "In third place is Gryffindor, with 2065 points." Harry bit his lip, but didn't complain. They'd lost little, comparatively. "In second place is Ravenclaw, with 2120 points, and Hufflepuff wins the cup, with 2294 points. Congratulations," he said softly as the banners changed color to yellow and black. "Let's eat."

The Hufflepuffs didn't even bother to cheer.

* * *

"Excuse me, sir, I'd like an interview!" Gilderoy Lockhart turned to see Marcus Weasley push past the crowd of other reporters that always appeared whenever Gilderoy travelled to Diagon Alley. He gave the lad his best smile, the one where his teeth caught the light just right. Marcus had been ever so useful, after all. His articles always came perfectly timed to support the discreditation of Hogwarts even further.

Perhaps they were ready for the pushback now. "About my upcoming position as the Defense Against the Dark Arts position next fall at Hogwarts?" Marcus scribbled on his notepad furiously, as Gilderoy allowed himself a small smile. "I do hope people trust my ability to protect the school enough to send their children this fall. It'd be a pity to not have any students to teach." By now, the other reporters were writing, too. Gilderoy hadn't even applied yet, but Dumbledore would have to accept him for the position, if only because Gilderoy's reputation was high enough, and Hogwarts low enough, that it was the only way for the school to survive.

Marcus hesitated. "But, sir, weren't you a professor last time when the basilisk attacked? Didn't several students become petrified under your watch?"

His smile froze into a cold rictus. Yes, he'd known this would be the difficult part. But if they could control both sides of the war… why, his name could be known to every wizarding child in the world. "Last time I tried to take care of the basilisk alone, and it drove me temporarily insane. I learned a lesson, that some menaces are too great to face without help."

"Will the help be your fellow Hogwarts professors, sir?"

Really, You-Know-Who needed his and Rita's help. The man had no concept of how to use publicity to his advantage. "Not entirely. I propose a force of Light-aligned witches and wizards to come from our normal citizens, who will learn to defend their communities against the Death Eaters. Perhaps a few of them will even be stationed at Hogwarts." Marcus's quill practically flew over his parchment, now, his eyes shining. "I will lead them, due to my extensive experience fighting against the dark. Since they are meant to counteract the Death Eaters, they shall be christened…" He paused for a moment to build up suspense. "The Life Eternal."


	16. Chapter 1 of This Wondrous Hope

So the first chapter of This Wondrous Hope is here! Sorry to anyone who was eagerly waiting, but just like I Do Recall I wanted to finish the entire of the book before I started parsing it out, so I won't be forced to stop in the middle.

For anyone who's forgotten what happened in I Do Recall... *Takes deep breath.* Everyone woke up in 1991 essentially knowing the plot of Harry Potter and once people actually believed it, they set about to change said plot, no matter what side they were on. This resulted in Ron's death via Pettigrew, with Percy blaming himself, Lockhart and Rita signing up as Voldemort's servants, the death eaters and future death eaters getting arrested, which was a big deal since Draco was only eleven when he went to Azkaban, Sirius getting released and going to therapy, more death both at Halloween and when the teachers killed the basilisk, Lockhart starting a group of vigilantes to drive a divide in the wizarding world, this magical creatures rights campaign, and probably a couple other things I'm forgetting, but you get the gist.

I don't own Harry Potter.

* * *

 _July 3, 1992._

 _Harry visited today. I had begun to fear he was only interested in my friendship during the school year, that perhaps he wasn't even truly my friend. He disabused me of that notion fairly quickly, though I'm not sure how he figured out I was so insecure. "Neville," he said frankly, "You do realize my other best friend is Hermione, right, and that she's taken to spending time with the other Ravenclaw girls? At least unless the conversation turns to plants, I can generally understand what you're talking about."_

 _Which reminds me, I need to pick out a birthday present for him. Is it weird to give another boy a potted rose? Because I've been practising the spells and potions that will make a blue rose cultivar, since traditional Muggle horticulture techniques can't do it. It's probably weird, and Harry wouldn't get it, anyway. Maybe I'll just get him a Venus Flycatcher. I remember him being… not the neatest individual when we shared a dorm._

 _I was so worried Gran wouldn't be nice to him. I mean, he's the savior of the wizarding world, right? She has to be nice to him! But still, she is Gran…_

 _She looked him up and down when he came in, and I held my breath. At least he'd gotten rid of those old baggy clothes his cousins gave him. He'd come by Floo, though, so his hair was ruffled and soot brushed across one cheek. Gran looked him up and down, pursed her lips, cast a spell to flatten his hair, and announced he'd do. I don't think I'd ever been so relieved since the time when Great Uncle Algie dropped me out the window and it turned out I wasn't a Squib._

 _I don't really have friends over often. Gran scares them._

 _Harry wasn't even insulted by the whole hair thing. He actually asked me if she'd take offense if he requested she teach him the spell- his hair had stayed down for the entire visit and he thought it might be nice to actually be able to look neat when he started dating. I hedged for a bit, but she was actually very informal when he asked. Sometimes I wonder if she'd rather have Harry as a grandson than me. Of course she would, what am I saying?_

 _Harry did teach me to fly today. I was hesitant, because while I'd been made to continue lessons until I could at least totter along in the air like an old man with a Cleansweep 1, it was a painful affair of hugging the broom for dear life and ended one time out of every ten in me either crashing into something or falling off said broom, but he was remarkably patient with me, getting me to relax a little by, rather ironically, talking about plants while we were in the air. "So I've never understood the distinction between magical plants and creatures. I mean if you look at mandrakes-"_

 _"We actually define it by whether they photosynthesis, er, get their energy from light or not. Bowtruckles look like plants, but they eat insects, so they're creatures, and technically certain blood-eating plant look-alikes are, too, whereas dryads are plants even though they're very mobile because they only need sunlight…"_

 _Anyway, it was a very important discussion, which I'm sure Harry wasn't listening to at all. So I didn't realize I'd been flying, and reasonably skillfully at that, until about an hour had passed, at which point I looked down, may have shrieked a little, and tightened my grip on my broom. Harry talked me down before I could crash into a cliff from fear, and pointed out I could fly just fine, I'd just been overthinking it._

 _I suppose that applies to my improvement in potions, too. I will never be a Quidditch star, nor potions master, but at least I can travel by broom and brew a Pepper-Up potion without killing myself._

 _And I had a lot of fun today. To be honest, I'm still waiting for the catch._

* * *

Harry thought perhaps this was the best summer he'd ever had in his life, though he didn't say that to Lupin, who still seemed half-worried that he'd question Sirius's absence. He'd only had to spend a couple weeks with the Dursleys before coming here.

He'd visited Neville and Hermione plenty over the summer. Hermione had even introduced him to all her Ravenclaw friends. Of course, Padma he already knew a little, and Sue Li acknowledged him with only a little wave before lying down on the grass to watch a butterfly. Morag simply squeaked and ran off when he introduced himself.

He had a moment of fleeting panic, wondering if she had a crush on him, because that was how Ginny used to act in the old world, before Hermione sighed and said, "She does that with everyone. Just start talking with her about potion stirring theory or something and she'll come out of her shell." Harry decided to take her word for it, and wondered if that was why he had almost no memory of her or Sue Li in the old world. Incidentally, he had no interest in potion stirring theory. He wondered why exactly anyone would.

But a little niggling feeling didn't allow him to fully relax. He hadn't received any contact from the Weasleys. With Ron gone… But he'd thought of himself as part of their family, and the part of his mind where he was again a lonely little boy in a cupboard under the stairs was sad to see that gone. He'd thought that at least Ginny would write eventually. Ginny, who had leveled a gaze of startlingly fierce anger upon him before he boarded the Hogwarts Express. Ginny, whom he hadn't seen nor heard from since.

Ginny, who he remembered as a stunning red-haired woman, fierce as any lioness, clever in a tight spot, and more stubborn than him, which was saying something. He wondered how she remembered him. He doubted it was as the child he'd admit he was now.

He wondered if they'd still fall in love this time around. So much else had changed, and he did remember being an idiot about Ginny's crush until quite some time into his schooling.

He'd simply have to talk to her when they went back to Hogwarts. They couldn't keep avoiding each other.

The doorbell to the tiny apartment he shared with Lupin in Muggle London (since only the most rundown places in Wizarding London would rent to werewolves) rang. He sprang up and hurried over to the door.

Sirius frowned and squinted at Harry. "I swear you grow every time I see you."

"You see me nearly every day," Harry pointed out, smiling. Lupin and Sirius (he was trying to get out of the habit of calling Remus by his surname, really, but it wasn't easy) hadn't really explained why he was staying with only Remus or why he wasn't staying in Grimmauld Place, but Sirius visited so often Harry didn't bring the issue up. He wondered, of course, but Sirius got really fidgety every time he talked about it. Maybe he just wanted some freedom, after last time when he could barely leave the house.

"Exactly. Sooner or later you'll be as tall as Hagrid, I swear. Did he get as tall as Hagrid, Remus?"

Remus emerged from the kitchen with a long-suffering sigh. "Of course he didn't. Use your brain for a moment, Sirius." Before Sirius could argue, he said, "He was taller."

Harry leaned back on the raggedy couch from the side of the road Remus had found to replace the expensive, but profoundly uncomfortable, one Sirius bought them in the beginning of the summer, and enjoyed the presence of his family.

He could get used to being normal.

* * *

Oliver Wood breathed in the scent of Penelope's perfume, a heady floral, tinged with their sweat and the sweet aroma of crushed grass. "You know," he murmured, rolling over in the grass languidly to face her, "I really do have to be getting to the Ministry if I'm not going to miss my Floo time." International travel was only legal through Ministry Floos so they could keep smuggling to a minimum; of course criminals didn't listen to those laws, and there was always the occasional Muggleborn leaving and entering the country by plane or boat, but Oliver saw no reason to do so himself after Penelope lectured him for an hour about the law.

She'd been so shocked to find out he was a Muggleborn. He'd stalked off in a huff until she came to him and explained she didn't mean she didn't like him because he was Muggleborn or anything like that, just that she was surprised a Muggleborn liked Quidditch so much. In her experience Muggleborns never did take a fancy to the sport, though she'd added hastily that of course that was a generalization.

He hadn't told her half his obsession with the sport came from hoping to fit in with those who grew up wizards. (His type A personality and obsession with sports before Hogwarts didn't help either, of course. He'd been told only six months before his Hogwarts letter that he might go to the Olympics for figure skating someday, before he gave it up for magic.)

Penelope sighed, bringing him back to the last moment he'd have with his girlfriend until the holidays. "Do you think they'll have a problem with you being Muggleborn there? Durmstrang is a proud school, and very… Dark."

"I don't intend to tell them, Penelope. But if they do find out, I'm sure they're not going to bully a Quidditch player bringing honor to their school." He immediately tried to push memories of Slytherin hexes out of his head. He hadn't brought all that much honor to Hogwarts, anyway, and he didn't think Durmstrang had rival houses the same way Hogwarts did. It would be fine.

"I'm happy for you." She ran nervous fingers through his hair, tousling it. "I do wish you weren't leaving, though."

"I'll be back as often as I can be," he promised, and then she silenced him with a kiss and he lost himself in that for a while, until the first drop of water landed atop his head. He glanced up at the grey sky and scowled. "Bloody rain."

Penelope stood, brushing dirt off her dress Oliver's sister had bought her for wearing so she'd fit in when visiting him in his Muggle home. "Don't swear. You knew it wasn't great weather for cloud-watching, anyway, and you need to get inside to go to the Ministry."

He stuck his tongue out at her before taking her hand and walking back to the house. "I'm going to miss you, sweetheart."

"And I you."

"Penelope?" Oliver asked, pausing underneath the eaves of the barn where the rain could not reach.

"Yes?"

He frowned out at the rain. "Will you look after him? He never did seem to recover." He didn't need to say who, he knew. Percy Weasley was, after all, indirectly the boy who'd brought them together.

Penelope laughed a little, though it had no humor in it. "Of course, Oliver. I still care." She paused, watching the rain drip off Oliver's nose. "Do you know, I'd wondered before we met again on 9 and ¾ if he'd get over his poncey attitude earlier this time around. I never thought he'd go so far in the opposite direction."

"If he asked, would you…"

She kissed him again. "Oliver? I chose you, both this time and last time. Percy's just my exboyfriend and hopefully not my ex-friend. Now, let's get you off to Bulgaria."


End file.
